


Volition

by cinaea



Series: the Trinity universe [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bigotry & Prejudice, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Fanmix available, Happy Ending, M/M, Mind Control, Moral injury, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Recovery, Slavery, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Subspace, Threesome - M/M/M, Touch-Starved, Unreliable Narrator, Victim Blaming, Violence, mention of child murder, references to the in-universe equivalent of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 123,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2277885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea/pseuds/cinaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mindful of the abuse Bucky has suffered, his dominants are determined to take their bond slowly. But with his past crimes being dragged into the light, Bucky fears he can't afford to wait. After running from Tony and Steve for so long, Bucky sets out to win them before they learn the full extent of his guilt and turn their backs on him and his friends forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two of the Trinity universe, a D/s, soul-bond AU. MCU-inspired and fused with random wisps of comics. Steve was frozen in WWII and went on to join the Avengers as per canon, but Bucky, Natasha, and Clint all have new backgrounds set during modern times. 
> 
> In the first story, Bucky and his friends escaped from slavery under HYDRA. During the escape, Bucky developed an incomplete soul bond with two Avengers. After nearly a year on the run from HYDRA and his dominants, Bucky rescued Steve from HYDRA's clutches and agreed to accompany Steve and Tony back to New York. This story begins just minutes later.
> 
> Beta by [samanthahirr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr/works) and [windsweptfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic). AU originally created by [windsweptfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic). (Thanks for encouraging me to keep the 'verse going, bebe!)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

_"Tell me about the first person you killed for HYDRA."_

* * *

"Take the shot."

Politicians spill out of the National Council at the end of the day's session, but Bucky’s target is easy to pick out. He doesn't know what the Minister of Health has or hasn't done; all he knows is that Mentallo wants Minister Jurzyca dead—and as publicly as possible.

Clint looks through the binoculars again, then back at Bucky. "You're overthinking it. Just pull the trigger. You've done this sort of thing before. Stop fucking thinking and shoot."

He's done this sort of thing plenty of times, killed men on orders. But only for the US military, only on orders from commanders he trusted. He's killed terrorists and insurgents and HYDRA scum, and it felt good—or at least righteous.

Not like this.

"Reconfirm the wind speed," he says, licking his lips and shifting his weight on the warm surface of the roof.

"Still three clicks to the right. Bucky, come on. What are you waiting for?"

The minister is shaking hands, but his car is pulling around to the bottom of the steps. Time's running out. 

This man is no one to Bucky. For all he knows, the politician could be in HYDRA's pocket; he may not be innocent at all. Bucky closes one eye and focuses his crosshairs on the man's bald head. He exhales.

And doesn't shoot.

"You have to," Clint insists, voice high and anxious. "You have to take the shot." Bucky's never seen Clint rattled on a mission. Mentallo's best sniper is all swagger and cocksure bravado in the field, not this spasmodic fidgeting.

"Wait," Bucky grunts. "Hang on." He shifts again, makes a show of resettling the rifle barrel a couple inches to the right. 

Jurzyca's walking toward the waiting vehicle. It's now or never.

 _Never_.

"He's leaving, you have to do it now. Bucky, _please_."

"I've got it," Bucky says. "Just another second."

Clint curses, finally guessing what Bucky's up to. He wrestles his own weapon up and shoulders Bucky aside, but he's too late; bulletproof glass shuts between them and their intended victim. "Shit!" he gasps. He goes utterly still for a moment, then shoves back from the edge of the rooftop, cradling his rifle. "Oh my god oh my god."

Bucky grabs him with the bionic arm and drags him up, concentrating to not squeeze too tightly. "Come on," he says, pulling him into the stairwell. "There'll be other shots, Clint," he says encouragingly, maneuvering them down the seven flights. "You can get him tomorrow."

"No, stop, Bucky. Bucky, what did you do?" Clint's breathing is loud in the claustrophobic space of the unlit stairwell. 

Bucky says nothing and drags him onward. They'll be fine, he tells himself. Clint and Natasha can take out Jurzyca tomorrow.

Mentallo should have let Bucky continue as their getaway driver; Clint would have had no problem making the shot today. Instead, that bastard had insisted that Bucky deliver the kill shot himself. He should have known what would happen.

The daylight is briefly blinding as they burst out into the loading dock, Clint still leaning heavily on him.

Natasha spots them and hikes down her skirt, abandoning a come-hither smile for her usual neutral expression, already reaching for Clint automatically. Bucky doesn't bother explaining; from the lack of panic and bedlam around them, she’ll already know he didn't complete the mission. He passes his friend to her and doesn't watch as she braces him up with her deceptive strength.

There's a long car with dark windows waiting on the other side of a low, cement barrier, and Bucky throws their rifles in the trunk. 

Natasha pushes an unresisting Clint into the back seat. She follows, and her hand fisted in Bucky's right sleeve pulls him in after them. Bucky blinks and gives her a hard look; they haven't ridden three to a seat before. Bucky's always ridden up front, even this morning when they were assigned a driver.

The car rolls out, taking them back to base, and Natasha tugs Clint's head down to her lap, fingers digging into his hair in a way Bucky knows Clint finds soothing.

"Didn't take the shot," Clint gasps, still hyperventilating. He threads his arms around her knee, fingers knotting white. "Shoulda known. Shoulda done it myself. Fuck. Fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

"Shh, it'll be alright, _solnyshko_ ," she says, but her voice is rougher than usual. Her small, hard hand grips Bucky around the neck and drags him down to rest his head on her shoulder. 

Bucky freezes, confused by her coddling. Natasha's never been physically affectionate with him—not like she is with Clint. They all share a bed, but Bucky's not the one she clings to at night.

Clint's not calm yet, and Bucky's never heard him so scared when he asks, "What did you do, Buck?"

Bucky smiles grimly and ignores how her bony shoulder digs into his temple. He knows exactly what he's done; he's refused to play Mentallo's sick game. He may be a prisoner, may have a collar around his neck and a voice in his head that prevents him from fighting back, but he's no man's puppet. He's no murderer.

Mentallo can rage all he likes, but Bucky will never kill for him. He'll take whatever punishment the villain doles out, but he won't cross this line.

Natasha's hand tightens in Bucky's hair, making his eyes water, and Clint whispers again, low and shaky, "What did you do?"

Bucky closes his eyes and focuses on their nearness. He's not afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  _solnyshko_ = little sun


	2. Chapter 2

"You're staring."

"You're the only thing in the world worth looking at," Steve says, and continues observing him with wide, wondering eyes.

Bucky shifts, uncomfortable with the flattery despite the warmth it kindles in his chest. He's acutely aware of the stolen uniform he's wearing, the lank hair hanging in his face, the useless metal arm at his side. There's an entire continent rushing by below them, the landscape no doubt breathtaking from this height. How can _he_ be worth looking at?

He flicks a meaningful glance at the wide sky out the Quinjet's windshield.

Steve's gaze follows his, but he shrugs unapologetically when he looks back. "It's the truth."

"Besotted," Bucky accuses gently, a kinder word than _blind_ , _foolish_ , _crazy_.

"Completely," he grins. "One hundred percent, undeniably head over heels for you."

He can't help blushing at that—knows he hasn't looked away from Steve, either. But who wouldn't be infatuated with a man like Steven Stark, Captain America himself? Bucky hasn't done anything to deserve him, yet somehow he's been graced to have him for a dominant.

Bucky squeezes Steve's hand rather than respond.

Steve hasn't yet relinquished Bucky's hand in his, had maintained the contact all the way up the jet's gangway and into the cockpit seats. The smooth ascent, the kilometers streaming by—this whole experience feels like a fantasy, like he's some fairy tale youth being swept away from his cruel former life. Steve's firm grip has kept him anchored throughout, and Bucky feels like he should thank him, but he doesn't know how to voice his gratitude without sounding pathetic.

Tony saves him from his embarrassment by taking the chair on Bucky's other side. "Hey, sweetheart," he says happily.

"Tony," Bucky quickly turns to smile at him, relieved. Tony'd left his side at takeoff to remove the Iron Man suit, and Bucky'd felt the loss of contact sharply. The nape of his neck is still irrationally cold, and he longs for Tony's hand on him again.

His other dominant is wearing sweats and a faded black t-shirt, the glow of the famous arc reactor faint in the center of his chest. His hair is a mess of wild spikes, testament to the emergency that had sent him rushing to the rescue, and Bucky's fingers itch to smooth them out. Tony Stark should only ever look _artfully_ disheveled, a deliberate posture for the press. Seeing him like this feels unbearably intimate—particularly the look of stunned happiness Tony's giving him. He wants to hide his dom away, protect this raw moment and keep it secret from the rest of the world.

Tony blinks after a moment, pulling himself back together with a little huff. "You're here. I...wow. I'm speechless—it's a first, ask Jarvis, ask anyone—I just...you're really here."

"I'm glad I am."

Tony reaches out slowly, giving him time to pull away, but Bucky's not going anywhere. But then Tony's hand wraps around the insensate metal of his left shoulder, and Bucky ducks his head, disappointed and embarrassed. 

"Not there. I can't—I don't feel anything there," he whispers, longing for touch but half-expecting Tony to pull away in disgust. "Please."

"Sorry, sorry. My mistake. Is this okay?" Tony asks hurriedly, sliding his hand up Bucky's shoulder, closer to his neck. His hand is strong, warm even through the stiff fabric of the Latverian uniform, and he gently kneads the muscle, unerringly finding where it's tight from the weight of the bionic arm. 

Bucky melts into the contact with a sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, that's perfect." 

Tony keeps up the massage with a pleased hum. 

Bucky's eyelids grow heavy, and he relaxes back into the seat, squeezing Steve's hand in time with the kneading.

"I dreamed about this. Being with you both," Bucky marvels, the words spilling out of him sweet and slow like molasses.

Tony beams. "It's not a dream anymore. I promise."

But there _is_ something dreamlike about the steady drone of the engine and the seamless blue sky speeding by outside; his dominants surrounding him, smiling so openly and touching so gently; his companions safe in the back, with him always—

Bucky stiffens and cranes his head over his shoulder to reassure himself that Clint and Tasha are where he last saw them. They're on a bench in the rear half of the jet, leaning into each other and sipping bottled water. He relaxes with another sigh.

"It's such a gift to have you with us," Steve is saying, and Bucky swings his head around to watch his beautiful lips form the words. "And I'll never forget what you did for me."

He frowns and lets his eyes wander Steve's face, from his generous mouth to his gorgeous eyes to the blood caked in his blond hair. Steve's left arm is still bare and streaked with dried blood, and anger once again quickens Bucky's heartbeat.

"You were hurt. They _hurt_ you," he says nonsensically, still incredulous that such a thing should even be possible.

"I'm fine, Bucky. You saved me." 

But Bucky pulls his hand free—he has to feel for himself—and touches Steve's face lightly, pushes his short hair back to confirm that the bleeding at his temple has stopped, skims his fingers down to Steve's throat to feel his strong, steady pulse.

His dominant goes still and allows the touch, his eyes rapt on Bucky's face, and Bucky doesn't know what his own expression's giving away, can't spare a moment to worry about that when he has Steve's skin warm and alive under his fingers.

"You did perfectly," Tony assures him, squeezing his shoulder and making Bucky's eyes close at the security of his touch, the thrill of his approbation.

Steve catches his hand in both of his and tugs gently. Bucky's eyes flicker open at the feel of stubble as Steve rasps his cheek against Bucky's knuckles.

"Mine," Bucky whispers unthinkingly.

"Yours," both of his dominants agree, and Bucky shivers.

"Are we going to bond now?" he finds himself asking, as though this _is_ a dream and he a helpless participant. He's wanted to complete the bond between the three of them for nearly a year. To have it now seems almost too much to ask.

"Of course," Tony assures him, but then Steve pulls back slightly, says, "Tony" in a warning tone, and something's not right.

Bucky shakes his head to clear it, alarm starting to prickle the hairs at the back of his neck.

"There's no rush," Steve says then, his expression earnest. "We want you to be sure. It's a big decision; you don't have to make it immediately."

"Oh," Bucky says, confused, trying not to listen to the doubt that's beginning to whisper urgently in his ear. He glances at Tony and takes in his strained smile.

They're not going to bond with him, he realizes gradually, the thought so momentous that it takes several tries before the full meaning hits. When it does, it's like a blast of arctic wind that steals his breath. 

"What?" he demands, but it comes out more like a gasp.

"Just because you're here now, that doesn't mean we all have to bond. It's a big step, it's permanent, and we don't want you to think we take it lightly. You take all the time you need."

"He's right," Tony says after a long moment, his words coming slowly. "As much as we want to be bonded, we shouldn't rush you. It wouldn't be fair. We'll wait. Make sure this is something you really want."

"But I'm here. I want this."

"You shouldn't be here," Steve says firmly, and Bucky wrenches his hand away, appalled. "You wouldn't be here if it weren't for my recklessness. You saved my life, Bucky, and that was incredibly brave. But it wasn't your choice to be here with us, and we can't take advantage of that."

It's a ridiculous accusation. Bucky'd had the chance to run and he _chose_ them. How can they not understand what it meant for him to approach them in the clearing? 

"But I came to you," he tries, and his voice is far smaller than he wants it to be. Steve just looks at him pityingly, and dread grips the base of his spine like an icy fist. "You don't want me."

"Oh, sweetheart, we do!" Tony cries, leaning closer and squeezing his neck comfortingly. "Of course we do, but we—"

Bucky cringes away from the caress, and his entire body feels chilled at the loss. He tunes out their platitudes, lost in self recrimination. Of course they wouldn't want him; look at the violence he just wreaked in front of them. He tucks his filthy hand under his leg, wishing that the traces of gunpowder and dried blood would magically disappear. He'd been a fool to ever think they could accept what he's become.

"Why not, then?" he croaks, driven by some perverse need to hear the condemnation from their own lips. "I'm saying I want it, so why not bond now? Let's hear it."

"You don't know your own mind right now," Steve explains, his face gone sad and solemn. "You've been in the wind for so long, sick with bond withdrawal; you're in no position to think clearly about this."

He starts to shake his head in denial, but Tony interrupts.

"Look at me, Bucky. C'mon, please look at me."

Bucky meets his gaze reluctantly, already bracing himself for more rejection. 

"We're so glad you're here, but Steve's right: you ran from this for a long time."

Tony's eyes are wide and anxious like he's asking for something, but Bucky's probably reading him wrong. This is just more excuses.

"This is going to seem unfair of us. And I know you've got more experience with that than most people—believe me, I intend to spoil you rotten to make up for it—but this is important. Sweetheart, I'm sorry to ask—I want you to have your privacy—but we need to know why you want this now. We need you to give us a _reason_."

Bucky freezes, paralyzed by the request. How can he find the words to tell them they've already become a part of him, that his heart stopped when he realized Steve was in danger, that he thinks of them every minute of every day? How can he begin to convince them of something that's so much bigger than words, when they won't even believe he knows what he's saying?

"I know you both," he starts, the words tripping hesitantly off his tongue. "You took such good care of me, even though I was on the run. You were always there when I called, and I know you wanted to do more."

He risks a look at Tony's expression and sees his eyes crinkling fondly. Heartened, Bucky takes a deep breath and continues, "I believe you wouldn't ever hurt me unless you absolutely had to, and I can only say that about two other people in the whole world."

Steve murmurs his name at that, but Bucky pushes on, trying to make them see.

"And I have this... this ache. Like a hole right here," he thumps his fist against his chest where the incomplete bond stalks him, "and it's telling me to make you mine before I lose you again. I can't lose you again. I can't."

Tony pulls away from him then, an unreadable look on his face, and Bucky knows he's said something wrong.

"You're not going to lose us," Steve assures him. "I swear, we'll see you and your friends through these tough times, until you're in a safe place to make the decision for yourself. Bonding is supposed to be willing, without coercion, and right now there's a legal obligation between us. You've been forced into service for years, and...." 

The rest of Steve's words are drowned out by the sound of Bucky's dreams crashing down around him. He's failed to convince them, lost his chance. They must already know about him, all the sick, twisted things he did at Mentallo's bidding, and they can't forgive him. Why would such heroes ever shackle themselves to a base, vicious submissive like him?

"We will bond with you, I promise. But we need to wait until we're sure it's what you want. Just for now, baby." Tony's words put the final nail in the coffin of his hopes.

It doesn't matter what he wants. His dominants have spoken; he doesn't get a say. Bucky shudders and wraps his arm around his chest, digging his nails into the unfamiliar fabric.

He'd been a fool to get his hopes up. He's known for years that he was unpardonable, that he'd bartered his humanity away for the sake of his friends and could never, ever recover it. He must have been wrong about what his dominants wanted from him, and now it's too late. Now he's thrown all their lives into the Starks' hands, and he was wrong.

His chest tightens as the enormity of what he's done sinks in. He'd promised Natasha and Clint that he'd always protect them, but he's led them into this trap. He has no leverage now, nothing to bargain with besides himself, and Tony and Steve don't want him. His dominants will hand them all over to the authorities, and there's nothing Bucky can do, nothing he can sell or pay to convince them otherwise.

"Are you alright?"

Bucky sobs and shies away from Steve's deceptively kind voice. He needs a plan. He has to think of something. He hasn't sacrificed this much to just give up. He has to _think_.

An ugly idea filters through his despair, and Bucky freezes, staggered by the heinousness of the transgression. 

Despite how Mentallo and HYDRA had liked to run things, power in a genuine dynamic relationship is a two-way street—and never more so than in the case of a true-pair bond. Even with their bond incomplete, Bucky has been aware of the influence he could wield over his dominants, even from half a world away. He'd been careful not to push at first, not to forbid them their searches, because he'd heard their desperation, known they were at their limits. But he'd always known it was there, that he _could_.

And he _had_ , soggy with liquor and self-loathing in the wake of the Élysée anniversary. His dominants had scared him, and he'd put his foot down despite their pleading because it was for their own good.

He could do it again. Demand they complete the bond now. They'd have no choice but to comply, to meet his needs. He could manipulate them with it, chain them to him for the rest of their lives, wear them like a shield at his trial, make pariahs of them and drag them down with him.

He could sacrifice these men he loves—along with the rest of himself—on the pyre of his vow to his friends. Use their bond like one of Mentallo's compulsions, twist and force them to do his bidding, become the monster he'd only just begun to hope he wasn't, all in the name of protecting Natasha and Clint.

A furtive glance in their direction, and he can tell from Clint's too-casual sprawl, from Natasha's feigned disinterest, that they've picked up on his distress. They're on alert, just waiting for his signal. He loves them so much he _aches_ with it.

Don't his friends deserve _everything_? He'd sworn. He's forsaken his very soul for them. If he fails them now, weren't all his sacrifices, all his atrocities meaningless? 

"It's alright, honey. Shh, hey now, it's okay," Tony says, and his hand in Bucky's hair is suddenly the only thing keeping him upright.

He whimpers and leans helplessly into the touch before catching himself with a breathless snarl. He's too vile to take their comfort. How can he deserve it, when he's about to—. About to—

He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He puts his palm to his chest to feel its rise and fall but his hand is shaking and he can't _breathe_ —

Steve catches his chin and turns him to face him. " _Be calm_ ," he says, his voice just edging into dominance. " _Breathe_."

All the fight drains out of Bucky's body, and he goes lax in his dom's grip. It's a well-trained response to a threatening dominant, and he hates the years that have left him vulnerable to it. At least he can breathe now—but just barely. Fast and shallow, but it's enough to keep his head clear so he can watch these men take him apart.

Tony's hands are gentle in his hair, on his chest, and Bucky chokes on an involuntary sob at the unfairness of this kindness, the insufficiency of it. They've left him with nothing, destroyed him utterly. He'd wanted to be better than this.

"It's okay. You're okay. Please, what is it? What's wrong, sweetheart? Tell us so we can fix it."

The words are on the tip of his tongue, the terrible, unforgivable demand that would strip them of their free will and bind them forever.

Bucky bites his lip hard, focuses on the copper spreading across his tongue to keep the words inside.

Steve's concerned expression deepens as he thumbs blood from the corner of Bucky's mouth and looks at his husband. "Tony, I don't—"

Bucky bats Steve's hand away, unwilling to dirty the man's hands. He scrubs his own lips with the back of his hand, smearing it with fresh blood. His stomach turns at the scent of gunpowder, and he groans in anguish. 

He doesn't want to do this. God, he doesn't want to do this. Don't make him choose.

"Bucky, dearest, look at me. Please look at me."

Tony's fingers on his jaw bring his face around. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut rather than see the tenderness promised in that voice.

"You're having a panic attack. Have you ever had one of these before?" Bucky shakes his head, confused. They should be putting as much distance between him and themselves as possible. He manages another wheezy inhalation. "I'd like to put you under, sweetheart. I think it'd help. Do you want that? Will you let us help you?"

Bucky blinks in surprise and loses the shallow rhythm of breathing. He coughs and gasps, tearing free of Tony's grasp as he puzzles over the offer. Bucky's about to use them abominably; how can his dominants want to give him something like that?

But a voice is clamoring in Bucky's mind, leaping at the chance. He'd attribute it to greed, to the withdrawal—it's been years since he willingly submitted to a dominant he trusted—but it's just cowardice. However briefly, he can put off making the choice that damns them all. And suddenly it's all he wants in the world. Forgiveness, peace, and acceptance are all too much to ask. But a few minutes, here and now, held safe in these arms before he betrays them? He wants it more than life itself.

He hears himself whine, and he leans forward, pressing into Steve's hand on his chest.

"Words, darling, we need to hear your words. You don't have to beg—we'll never make you beg for this, but we need your permission, Buck."

"I want it," Bucky whispers shamefully, and waits with his head down, hiding behind his hair.

" _You make us so very happy_ ," Steve says in that _voice_ , and Bucky throws himself headfirst into the drop.

His racing thoughts evaporate, his mind slowing in a soothing fog. He feels warm, secure, _safe_ , and he's vaguely aware of an urge to weep with gratitude.

" _You're the sweetest sub in the whole world, aren't you, gorgeous?_ " Tony is always so sweet, always has the kindest words for him, and Bucky stirs his lips to whisper his name.

"Do you need something, sweetheart?"

He rolls those words over a few times. There was something he needed. Needed to do? It's an unhappy thought, and Bucky turns away from it, nestling back down into the comfortable haze. 

He's vaguely aware of his dominants— _his!_ —talking above him, and they're too far away. Bucky needs their hands on him.

"What is it, darling?"

"Closer," he manages, and then there's a hand at his cheek, so he nuzzles it and shudders with the pleasure that sparks all through him.

More talking, and then he's being lifted, cradled in strong arms and settled on a warm lap, and he buries his face in the crook of Steve's neck and breathes him in. Steve will hold him tight and never let go. But even in the heat of Steve's embrace, something's missing.

Bucky flails his arm, reaching out, and there's the unfamiliar scratch of beard, warm lips on his palm, and he coos in delight and reaches further, finds Tony's shoulder and pulls him closer, gets a warm head pressed to his stomach, and a thought flickers by, leaving Bucky carding his fingers through the thick hair, smoothing out the spikes.

"You're so good for us," Steve rumbles under his ear, and Bucky hides his helpless smile against that beloved throat. He's rewarded with a kiss on his temple.

"Want to be good for you," Bucky sighs. "Trying. Just want to be good." He burrows into Steve's broad chest, trying to get even closer. He wants to stay here, where he's safe and held, where he's _good_ , where he doesn't have to hurt anyone.

"You are, Bucky. You're just perfect," Steve says, and goes back to pressing his lips against Bucky's hairline.

"So good," Tony murmurs, and pulls away. Bucky whimpers at the loss, but then Tony's cradling his hand again, pressing sweet, flirting kisses to his knuckles, his fingertips, his wrist—everywhere but where Bucky suddenly wants them, and his own lips throb in sympathy. Sparks thrill through Bucky at every touch, setting him on fire with a tight, anxious yearning he hasn't felt in so long, and he squirms uncertainly. "We love you, sweetheart. Nothing will ever change that. You'll always be our good boy."

"Please," Bucky whispers, suddenly desperate. "Please, _please_ —."

"Please what, love?" Tony says, pressing Bucky's hand to his cheek. Bucky scratches at his stubble and beard, momentarily distracted by the textures. "Anything you need."

Steve's lips form words against his forehead, "Tell us, Bucky. It's okay."

"Promise," Bucky says. He wants it more than anything. "Promise. Always."

Tony gasps, but Steve's already squeezing him tightly, and Bucky feels so safe in his arms. He's never leaving Steve's arms.

" _Bucky Barnes, you are ours. Forever. No one is ever taking you away from us. I'll kill anyone who tries._ "

"I'll build a bunker; we'll hide away from the entire world if it comes to it, but you are never leaving our side."

Bucky sobs, overwhelmed and happy, and then their voices are gentling him, soothing his upset and sending him back down into the drifting mists where he doesn't have to be afraid of anything.

He floats in that contented place for a long time, but every once in a while the word eddies across his mind, and he mouths it, worries at it, finally gets his lips around it, "Promise," and every time, he's met with reassurances.

Sounds. There's some kind of regular pinging noise and then grumbling voices.

Bucky is pulled upright by strong hands on his shoulders, and he tries to twist to hide his face again, to go back to the safe place. But Steve's fingers are kneading firmly, working the shoulder that always bothers him, and Bucky pauses, torn.

"Come on now, Buck," Steve coaxes, and Bucky grumbles but pushes into the touch.

Tony catches his face, stroking gentle fingers through his hair. "It's time to come up now, gorgeous. You've been so good, so very good for us, but we're almost home now. Don't you want to see?"

Bucky sighs and blinks his eyes open, tilts his head with Tony's caresses. "Home," he hums the word happily.

The chiming grows louder. Tony turns his head and snaps, "Not now, J."

"It's okay, Tony," Steve says, "I'll take care of him. See what Jarvis wants."

Bucky frowns unhappily as Tony steps out of sight, but then Steve is resettling him sideways on his lap, cupping his cheek and turning his face up, and Bucky stares up at his dominant, bemused.

Steve is so beautiful, face slack with joy and care, lips slightly parted in a tiny, incredulous smile, and eyes wide and adoring.

Bucky blinks, surprised. Adoring?

There's no denying Steve's rapt expression, the tenderness of his caress on Bucky's stubbled skin. Steve is in love with him, just like he'd always said he was.

But he'd been against their bond. He'd been the one rejecting Bucky. How can he say he doesn't want Bucky when he so clearly does?

He blinks a few more times, shakes his head a little to clear it, and returns Steve's smile while his mind races. What had Steve said earlier? Something about not rushing, about a legal obligation. He wants to _wait_.

Not a rejection after all, then. Not a complete one. Steve is understandably on the fence about having Bucky as his submissive—doubtless he's having second thoughts now that the reality of harboring a terrorist is starting to sink in. But the lingering effects of dom-space have betrayed him; he does want Bucky.

Bucky takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he whispers, and wraps his hand tightly around Steve's on his shoulder.

He's going to be _so good_ for them. He'll win them over. And he'll do it soon, because the longer they all wait, the longer the authorities have to dig into his crimes, the more reluctant his dominants will become—until he loses his chance for good. No, Bucky will secure them quickly, and they'll bond before they learn the worst of him, before the rest of the world comes calling.

If he's good enough, sweet enough, maybe he won't have to make that terrible choice after all.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart? Better?" Tony asks, returning to the cockpit.

Bucky gives his sweetest smile and finds that it's not forced at all. "Yeah, Tony. I'm okay now. Thanks."

"You're the best. God, how did we get so lucky?"

Bucky ducks his head, not sure what his face will show if he thinks about that praise too long.

"What did Jarvis want?"

Tony makes a sound of disgust. "Honeymoon's over, apparently. Fury's circling the Tower like a one-eyed vulture, demanding permission to land on the helipad."

Steve's legs stiffen beneath him, and his loving expression shutters, but his hands don't squeeze Bucky any tighter. His dominant's control is amazing, and Bucky can't wait until he can truly call him _his_.

"Not exactly the homecoming we'd wanted for them," he observes lightly. "Did you grant permission?"

"Not like I had a choice." Tony's scowling, but Bucky narrows his eyes and considers him. It's more of a pout, he decides; Tony isn't entirely upset. "But Jarvis is going to lock him in the elevator."

"Tony," Steve sighs, releasing Bucky's bad shoulder and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Don't be petty. We don't need a fight with him."

"I don't know about you, Sleeping Beauty, but I set out last night spoiling for a fight, and I missed it completely. I say bring it on!" Tony shoots Bucky a wink, and he can't help but grin in response to his dom's playfulness.

"Jarvis, please let the Director into the main room." Steve says to no one Bucky can see, but Tony's already ignoring his husband, crouching to point out the windshield at the approaching New York skyline, directing Bucky's attention to their destination, Stark Tower.

Home.

Bucky shoots an anxious glance toward his friends in the back of the jet. The ever-present worry eases fractionally at their continued presence, and he steels his resolve. He's going to make a home for them all. 

And with reality already intruding in the form of the director of SHIELD, Bucky's going to have to work fast, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Director Fury sparks the realization that Bucky's dominants don't have everything under control like he'd thought.

"Let me guess," comes a deep voice from the room ahead. "They followed you home, and now you want to keep them."

Bucky falters, but his dominants urge him forward between them, leading him off the elevator into a large, open living space. In a glance he takes in the wide expanse of windows, the shadowed hallway off to the right, an open kitchen with large cabinets and appliances, and the multitude of small, matte circles in the ceiling betraying the watchful presence of Tony's AI. A frisson of alarm rolls up his spine.

He can't hear his friends behind him, but he resists the urge to turn and check. If their footsteps have gone silent, it means they're as cautious as he is.

He's still trying to determine where is safest to put his back when a figure in black rises from the bank of couches in the center of the room.

"Jarvis, I thought the cleaning service was supposed to take out the trash," Tony says, sauntering forward, and Bucky grits his teeth at the way his flank feels suddenly vulnerable.

 _"My apologies, sir,”_ a familiar British voice drawls. _“The regular cleaners do not specialize in pest control."_

"Director," Steve greets, also approaching. His tone is more polite than Tony's, but there's the promise of steel in it, and he stops short of shaking Fury's hand. 

All three men appear to be sizing each other up, and Bucky grimaces at the uncomfortable realization that his doms have put themselves squarely between him and Fury. The unfamiliar dominant exudes that confidence that comes from real power, and Bucky's instincts all warn him away.

He retreats a few soundless steps until he feels Natasha's fingers wrap around his forearm. He focuses on her touch and tries not to think about the Mark I knife in his boot.

Steve and Tony continue to stare the intruder down.

Eventually Fury's stance relaxes. "I'm glad to see you in one piece, Cap. You had me worried." He nods at Steve's tattered uniform and the blood-streaked arm revealed by the missing left sleeve.

"Is that what you call worry? I know you have the emotional capacity of a meal worm, but it sure didn't sound like worry when you told me to stay put while you 'ascertained his whereabouts.'"

"Tony—" Steve tries to interrupt.

"No, SHIELD was supposed to be providing you backup. Some job they did. They sure as hell didn't manage a rescue."

"From what I hear, you didn't arrive in time either, Stark," Fury snaps.

"At least I tried—"

"Hey. Buck," Clint whispers from his left side, an unwelcome distraction from the confrontation in front of them. "You alright, or what?"

"Huh?" Bucky is slow to drag his eyes away. He wonders if this is a purely territorial display or if there's something wrong with the Starks' promised arrangement with SHIELD. His fingers are cold as ice, and he rubs them together to warm them.

"I've never seen you go that deep," Clint says awkwardly, failing to meet his eyes. He shrugs one shoulder. "Are you okay with it? I mean, it looked okay, they didn't—. It's just that you said you didn't want to, before, and...." he lets the thought hang unfinished.

Bucky's stomach turns to realize what his friends witnessed on the Quinjet. Of course he'd known they were there—at first. But he'd quickly forgotten them, forgotten _everything_ under the weight of his doms' full attention. Clint's right; he hasn't lost himself in a drop like that in years. He'd learned as a teenager to always maintain some degree of awareness in case he ever needed to pull himself out in a hurry, but that self-preservation instinct had abandoned him today.

He doesn't remember much of what happened while he was in headspace, just a vague impression of desperation and reassurance. His dominants had been happy with him after, but why wouldn't they be? They'd taken him deeper than he's been in forever.

He'd been helpless in their hands.

And it'd been good. So good to lose himself utterly in them. He itches for it again even as he curses his own weakness. He'd resisted the temptation they represent for nearly a year, and with good reason. If they can reduce him to such a mindless state, then it's not safe for him to allow it again.

Natasha's fingers tighten on his arm, and he knows his silence has gone on too long.

"Yeah, Clint," he whispers, "I'm okay. Later, huh? We'll talk later."

But Clint doesn't answer, and Bucky notices that he's focused back on the arguing dominants, eyes burning.

Things seem to have cooled down as Bucky turns back to their conversation. Steve is nodding. "I'm sorry about your people. I take it Amador's already sent her report?"

"What little there was of it, yes. She missed some of the action, but it looks like she covered the main points." Fury's eye drifts over them, and the muscles between Bucky's shoulders go tense under the predatory gaze. "So you brought them all home after all."

Then Tony's stepping into the man's way. "They're staying here with us. People who save my husband's life deserve the best view in the city, not some windowless hamster cage in SHIELD HQ."

Fury narrows an assessing look on Tony, then turns his piercing eye toward Bucky. The man recoils like he's just smelled something foul. "I'll be damned. You're bigger fools than I took you for if you brought him here without bonding him first."

Bucky flinches.

"We've decided to wait—" Steve starts stiffly, but Fury's not done.

"You decided?! Your husband is insisting on custody, but neither of you has done the one thing that would guarantee it! What the hell are you waiting for?"

"We're not doing this now, Director. The bond will stay as it is until we're all ready."

Bucky clenches his jaw. Their rejection on the Quinjet was painful enough; reliving it now for a witness—a man with awful power over all their lives—is salt in the wound.

Fury's incredulous accusations grow louder, but Bucky's attention is caught by the way Tony is pacing, shoulders hunched, nearly prowling behind Steve. His dominant is only Bucky's height without the armor, but his casual clothes reveal a surprising compact strength. Bucky wonders what his dominant is about to do, whether he'll destroy their chances with an ill-timed attack.

Steve's standing firm in the face of Fury's shouting. "He's a submissive, not a slave. Not anymore. He has rights."

"He has _bounties_ on his head. You think the French give a piss about his rights after what he's done?"

"Fuck the French!" Tony finally explodes, pushing into Fury's space. "You owe us! You're supposed to be on our side."

"I don't owe you shit," he declares, pulling himself up to his full, imposing height and stepping into Tony's advance. "My two best Avengers took a fucking gap year out of the blue and left me picking up the pieces. I've covered for your cyber espionage for months, Stark, and what do I have to show for it? Two dead agents and a case of cold feet."

There _is_ no deal with SHIELD, Bucky realizes, skin crawling. His dominants had misled him. He thinks desperately of the knife again. They're so vulnerable here. In this room. In this _city_. What are they going to do?

Fury continues implacably over Steve's and Tony's angry retorts. "How long do you expect to cover them up? Do you know how quickly the World Security Council is going to find out what you're hiding in your penthouse? The U.N.? Hell, two of them are wearing Latverian uniforms! I don't even want to know how they came by them, but I'll probably be hearing about it from Doom himself shortly. 

"Do you have _any idea_ how bad this is going to look? You've got your sub here and you're still not bonded. Makes him look damn guilty, Cap. Makes them all look guilty. I expected better of you. Now you're going to man up and commit right now—"

Bucky watches, feeling powerless to intervene as Steve's shoulders stiffen in a ripple of imposing muscle. He knows before his dom even speaks that he's about to gamble with all their safety.

"My decision is final."

The words sting like one of Mentallo's contemptuous backhands, and Bucky clenches his fingers into a fist, stifling his protest from long practice.

"And the world's not going to find out any time soon, are they?" Tony demands.

"Why's that?"

"Because you're going to help us keep them a secret. Because you're not here with a platoon of soldiers to take them away, so that means you want something. Don't you, Cabbage Patch?"

Fury shoots another look their way, and Bucky hears Clint’s breath catch. He instinctively shifts to place himself between the dominant and his friend.

"The three of them are going to stay with us, and you're going to help cover it up. Let's hear your terms." 

"There are no terms, Stark," the director snarls. "You're going to send them with me. And don't even bother threatening me. I will _erase_ you."

All three men bristle, stepping into one another's space, trying to intimidate each other into backing down. The argument escalates into a shouting match, none of them willing to budge an inch. 

Natasha's soft snort of "Dominants" does nothing to dispel Bucky's alarm. His doms want them at the Tower, but Fury wants them at SHIELD. The Starks are wealthy superheroes, but Fury has the full weight of countless governments behind him. There's no way Steve and Tony will get their way.

Unexpectedly, Fury is the first to offer a compromise. The director stops pushing for custody and starts talking about surveillance, and Bucky jerks upright, surprised to realize that he'd slipped into a defensive hunch sometime since leaving the elevator. He's still off balance when the man brings up monitoring devices, _tracking anklets_ , and his companions stiffen beside him.

Every muscle in his body goes on high alert, practically vibrating with the need to escape, to attack, to defeat the threat. They'll never be collared again. Never. They may appear harmless, but it's only an act. Steve had politely asked them to leave their weapons on the Quinjet as a show of good faith. And Bucky'd watched as Clint and Natasha set aside their visible weaponry but kept the backup pieces concealed under their clothes. Unwilling to give away his friends' secrets, Bucky had followed suit with a twinge of guilt, leaving the blade hidden in the shaft of his boot.

If anyone makes a move to shackle them, they'll fight their way free. Even if they have to go through his doms in the process.

"Never," Bucky snaps loudly, trying to sound more in control than he feels. "We'll never submit to—"

"No tracking devices," Steve says with a sharp gesture, talking right over Bucky's protest. "That's non-negotiable."

Bucky falls silent again, torn between outrage and caution. His dominants are still on their side, he reminds himself. They may be playing a dangerous game, but they seem determined to stand by Bucky. 

It's not like Fury would listen to him, anyway. Acknowledging that truth stings.

"I need to guarantee that they're in custody. Crimes like theirs, the word of Captain America and his billionaire boy toy just isn't going to cut it."

"Then add your word to ours. They stay here in the Tower on the family levels, and SHIELD sets up a checkpoint on a lower level. Jarvis will give you control of the elevator, and you can put guards in the stairwells. Something to ensure they don't get past."

"House arrest, huh?" Fury rubs his chin and seems to think this over.

Beside him, Natasha lets out a little, "Ahh," like she's figured something out, and Bucky spares her a glance, surprised she can be so calm about these men discussing their captivity.

"They still need to be interviewed. I won't stand in front of a Senate hearing and admit to not having taken steps to question known terrorists. Transporting them back and forth to headquarters is just an invitation for violence."

"Then do it here," Tony says. "The Avengers moved to the Mansion last year; their floors are all empty. SHIELD can take over one floor. Set up your security posts, set up an interview room, whatever gets you off. But you and yours don't set one foot inside these rooms." 

"And those three don't leave them, or they'll be met with a hail of bullets. Are we clear on this?"

"They'll stay put," Steve agrees.

Bucky scowls at the presumption, still twitchy with leftover adrenaline as he watches the three men continue to work out the terms of their detention.

"Fine, you've got your deal. Now get out of our home."

Fury shakes his head, suddenly looking entirely too relaxed, and Bucky's hackles rise instinctively.

"There's still one more thing I'm after. I need a word with your house guests."

"Director—"

"I think you'll agree that this is urgent, Cap. After all, it's been your favorite topic for the past year." Fury sidesteps Steve and Tony and stalks toward them.

Clint shifts back a step, but Bucky and Tasha hold their ground, staring him down.

"In this moment, just for now, I don't give a damn what you've done," he says, a surprising urgency in his tone. He stabs one finger downward to emphasize his point. "I only want what you know about HYDRA."

Bucky freezes, caught unprepared. He's not ready yet. The agreement his doms had just made was for the interrogations to start in two days. He was supposed to have more time before discussing his past.

Steve inhales sharply, but then Tony's stepping in the way.

"Hold your horses, Snake Plissken. You're not doing this now. These kids are exhausted and hungry. They need food and they need showers—seriously, I don't know what Barton's been rolling in, but he stinks. They don't need one of your interminable debriefings. So pack up your government-issued ego and get the hell out of my tower."

"This can't wait, Stark."

"You can do this when you've got your precious little interview rooms set up, and no sooner!"

Steve tugs Tony aside. "Please, Tony. I think this is important. You're going out tonight?" he asks Fury, voice practically quivering with excitement.

Fury nods, then turns back to Bucky and his companions. "I need information on every HYDRA facility you can think of. Bases, safehouses, weapons caches—anything. My forces are already mustering; we're going to hit them tonight. _Everywhere_. Maybe wipe them out for good."

It's a thrilling prospect, eradicating HYDRA, but it's impossible—not with only their intel. They certainly never learned the full extent of the organization's network, and they've been out of the loop for a year.

Still, Clint eases forward, interested. 

Natasha looks at Bucky and Clint, then shrugs. "There's a lab outside Greifswald."

Fury scowls and shakes his head. "We got that one this past winter."

Steve is leaning in eagerly, and Bucky stomps down a flare of annoyance. He knows how passionately Steve wants his tormentors destroyed. 

"The turkish baths in Malaga?" Clint offers.

"Last October."

Tony makes an impatient noise, clearly anxious for the conversation to be over and Fury to be gone.

Bucky says, "This could go on all day. Why don't you tell us where you've already hit."

Fury grins, a strange, toothy expression that doesn't reach his eye. "Step into my parlor," he says, walking over to the cluster of couches. There's a small device on the low table. He turns it on, and a holographic map of the northern hemisphere is projected over the table. A couple dozen sites are marked with red.

"We're not able to do anything about Baron Zemo's base in Latveria at this time. Doom has the U.N. too cowed to even impose sanctions, let alone approve an incursion on his territory," he's saying, but Bucky can barely hear him over the rushing in his ears.

"What are all these?" he asks with a shaky voice. He can sense his dominants stepping closer behind him.

Fury looks past him briefly, his face too carefully neutral, then back to the three of them. "These are all the locations we took out in the past year."

"SHIELD's been busy," Clint observes after an appreciative whistle, reaching out to touch a couple of the insubstantial red dots. "What, is it funding renewal time?"

But Bucky knows even before Fury says, "These were all hit by Captain Stark."

Bucky stumbles back, suddenly desperate for space even as his eyes remain locked on the map. He makes it two steps before he's caught by strong hands on his shoulders. He whips around, jerking away and staring at his doms.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Tony starts, moving closer, but Bucky fixes on Steve.

"How could you?" he demands, surprised when it comes out as a shout.

Natasha seizes his good arm and pushes him toward the hallway. "Go," she says, and turns to include his doms in her order. "Take this somewhere private. We'll work with the Director."

"Nat," he protests, though he's not sure what he's trying to say. It's so hard to think past the way his entire body is on red alert. He shouldn't leave them. Not ever. Not alone with an enemy. "Don't—"

"They'll be fine, Bucky. Come on now," Tony's saying, hovering at his side but not touching, gesturing for him to head down the dim hallway. "Come on, and we'll talk this out."

Bucky looks around frantically, but everyone's watching him, waiting to see what he'll do. Natasha quirks an eyebrow at him and crosses her arms, but she also leans back into Clint's space, and Bucky knows she'll look after him. The reassurance is barely enough to get Bucky moving, and he blindly follows Tony's lead as he focuses on keeping himself under control. He's vaguely aware of Steve close behind.

He's waved into the first room, and the lights switch on automatically. He's hit with a flash of panic when he spies a bed, memories of humiliation and helplessness ripping him from the present. 

Then the door clicks shut behind him, and he snaps himself back to awareness, taking in the impersonal decorations and identifying a guest bedroom even as he spins quickly enough to see Steve let go of the door knob.

Bucky growls at being cut off from the others, and Steve immediately steps aside to clear the path to the door.

"Okay, sweetheart. Anything you need," Tony says, spreading his hands wide.

"What were you thinking!" Bucky explodes, grateful to finally let himself go. "You could have been killed!"

"I had to find you—" Steve starts quietly, but Bucky cuts him off. That map had been visual proof of Steve's blind obsession, and the enormity of the revelation has Bucky shaking with anger.

"That was not _looking for me!_ So many locations—that was vengeance. Stupid, bullheaded, _reckless_ vengeance."

"It was important—"

"I thought you were smarter than this. I really did. How could you be so _stupid?_ "

"It's okay, Bucky."

"It's not okay! You could have been—it was _luck_ that I found out they had you! That's all it was, dumb, blind luck. Zemo would have—he would have—" Bucky chokes off and slaps his palm over the center of Steve's chest, where he'd imagined the white star dripping with blood.

"I'm here. I'm fine. Hey, it's okay."

"He would have _killed_ you," Bucky insists, clawing at the grimy uniform, trying to rip it away so he can get to Steve's flesh and feel his heart beating. The beautiful, _foolish_ heart that could have been stilled before Bucky ever got to meet him. The kevlar-reinforced fabric resists his efforts, and he imagines drawing his Mark I and slashing through it, cutting it from his dom's body just as the HYDRA doctor had cut away Steve's sleeve.

"He didn't kill me, Buck. He never got the chance."

"No thanks to you! You were _chained_ and _unconscious_ ; you wouldn't have even seen him coming." He grabs Steve's bare elbow, wrenches the limb toward him. "Your arm, show me your arm."

"Alright," Steve agrees peaceably, and rotates his arm so Bucky can see the tender skin of his forearm.

Bucky drags his grip down to Steve's wrist, where he searches for the IV insertion point. The skin is smooth now, utterly unmarked, but Bucky can picture the sinister needle without even closing his eyes, and the memory makes him nauseous. He digs his thumb into the spot where it had been and holds on tightly.

Steve hisses but doesn't move.

"They had their needle _right_ here. Inside you. They'd had you under for hours; you were _helpless_. How could you put yourself in that position?"

"But he's healed now," Tony murmurs, stepping forward and touching Bucky's hand. "See? All better. And his shoulder doesn't even need stitches. In a few more hours he'll be good as new. I know what it's like to see him in that condition. It's scary, I get that. But he really is okay. He's right here, and he's okay. You haven't lost him."

And Tony's so wrong, because it's not okay. Not while he can still see Steve lying before him, paralyzed and bloody. He jerks his head in denial, then realizes that he's shaking all over. He looks down and is startled to realize that his hand is white with strain around his dominant's wrist.

Shame twists hot in Bucky's chest, and he steps back, shoving Steve's arm away from him. He's not able to meet their eyes. "I…" he starts, but he doesn't know what he's feeling, let alone what to say.

"It's okay to be scared. I'm scared for him all the time. And the two of us, we were so scared for you this past year. But we're together now. Safe. Nobody is breaching this tower without a Hulkbuster, and let me tell you, I've got a stranglehold on that patent. It's okay to be scared, Bucky, but please know you're safe now, and Steve's right here."

The anger that had begun to falter flares back to life at Tony's patronizing words.

"For how long?" he demands. "You're going after them again, aren't you? You can't help yourself. Are you going tonight?"

"I've got it under control, I swear."

"Twenty-some bases in one year—you're not in control of anything. You got yourself captured and SHIELD agents killed," he snarls, deliberately aiming low. "You're being reckless even now. What was that with the director? You think you can protect me just because you will it so? We should be bonded already. You're playing with my life. And maybe my friends don't mean anything to you, but I thought I—"

"We've discussed this, Buck," Steve says, his voice finally losing the incongruous gentleness of the last few minutes.

But they _haven't_ discussed it. And this time Bucky's not going to stop until he has his say. He won't cross the line—he's not that desperate yet—but he'll have his say, god dammit. "No, I _asked_. I asked you to bond with me, and you wouldn't even listen to my reasons—"

"They're the wrong reasons," Steve announces, like it's his business why Bucky wants anything.

"They're _my_ reasons. You don't get to just shut me up, make deals on my behalf with government agencies—"

"Fury is our best option to keep you safe—"

" _Bonding_ is the best option to keep me safe. Fury said as much himself. Everything else is just a stall tactic. It won't work."

"We can protect you," Steve insists, so Bucky goes for the kill.

"Everyone's going to want a piece of me," he says, low and intense. "I'm on every wanted list in the hemisphere. What happens when they bring armed guards and a court order to take me into custody, Steve?"

"Nobody's taking you away from us," he says in a dangerous voice, suddenly seeming taller.

"How are you going to stop them? Are you going to kill them?" He ignores the way Tony hisses in alarm, and he steps right into Steve's space, unintimidated, and pushes hard on his shoulder. "Picture that moment in your head. Men and women with badges—your _allies_ —and they're pointing their weapons at you and Tony, and they're putting me in handcuffs. They're _taking me away_. Now tell me: Are you really in control of yourself?"

"We have a plan. I swear, Bucky, we have a plan already," Tony cuts in with a crack in his voice.

"Plans fall through, Tony; I'm living proof of that," Bucky snaps, then turns his focus back to Steve. "When they come, a completed bond is the only thing that'll give you rights to me; they can't disappear me if I'm your bonded. But if I'm not, they'll throw me in the deepest hole they can find and lose the key, and _you can't stop them_ , Captain."

Steve abruptly seizes him by the arms. The pressure only registers on Bucky's right side, but the shock of possession runs all the way through him. " _If_ it becomes necessary to bond in order to protect you, then damn right, we'll do whatever it takes," he growls. "But we are _not_ doing this now. Not like this. You don't need a bond to keep you safe."

Bucky stumbles, gaping at Steve's vehemence, and his dominant drops his arms as though burned. Bucky shakes himself and takes a breath to argue more, but Tony interrupts him.

"That's enough, sweetheart," Tony says, his voice nearly steady. "You don't mean it. It's just the fear talking."

"I'm not afraid."

But Tony catches his hand in both of his and holds on despite Bucky's attempts to withdraw it. "You are, love. And we understand, we do. I'm sorry I let Steve be so careless these past months. I could have done more to stop him, and that's my fault. But all that's over now that you're here. I promise."

Tony's calm words and warm, brown eyes finally penetrate his desperate anger, and he pauses, really looks at Steve. His dominant is miserable, clearly anguished, but he's stood here and endured Bucky's rage and hideous threats.

God, he's going about this all wrong. He'd been totally out of control himself just now. He's supposed to be sweet to them; he can't let them see him like this. He can't afford to be so vicious, no matter how their rejection stings.

He drops his head in shame. He'll do better. He has to. "I'm sorry," he offers softly. "I shouldn't've.... I didn't mean to be cruel."

"Oh, love...." Tony whispers.

Steve shifts closer, and in Bucky's peripheral vision his stance relaxes. "I should never have put you in the position to rescue me. I owe you an apology—both of you. I was...obsessed. I'm sorry."

"You're not going out tonight, right?" he asks, trying so hard to keep his voice quiet and pleading when he wants to shout his demands. He can't ask for what he really wants; he needs them to believe he's content with their terms. But he can ask for this. "No more assaults on HYDRA?"

"I'm not leaving you, Buck. Not tonight. Not ever."

He shakes his head at the obvious exaggeration. "Please don't make promises you can't keep."

"Bucky...."

"No, just...." He forces himself to meet Steve's deep blue eyes and touches the back of his dom's hand softly, softly. "Just promise you won't go after HYDRA like that. Not tonight. Not without a plan. Backup. _Tony_. Promise."

Steve doesn't even blink at the command. Instead he nods and solemnly says, "I swear to you, I'm not leaving your side without your okay. I'm not running off, Buck. I promise."

How can the man make such heartfelt declarations while denying Bucky the permanence he craves? Bucky feels his brow creasing in frustration and quickly ducks his head to hide his warring emotions.

"Show us your face, sweetheart," Tony coos, and then there's a hand touching Bucky's chin, and he doesn't mean to flinch—he wants them to want to touch him—but he doesn't see it coming and recoils instinctively.

"Careful," Steve chides, and Bucky just can't be here anymore.

He steps back and scrubs his hand—still dirty, god help him—across his face. "Okay. Okay, I'm sorry about earlier," he tells them, fumbling for a truthful excuse without revealing the depths of his anger. "I was just...."

"There's nothing to be sorry for. It's been a hell of a day."

Bucky tries to smile, but his lips don't cooperate, and he feels the resulting grimace in his cheeks. "Yeah, you could say that again." He looks at the closed door. "It's not over yet, though, is it."

Tony frowns and follows his gaze. "Jarvis, is Fury still here?"

_"Director Fury departed two minutes ago."_

"Pity. I was looking forward to showing him the business end of my boot," Tony says.

Steve sighs. "We need to keep things civil with him."

"Yeah, whatever. SHIELD will still get their floor; they'll have to be happy with just that. Oh, man, Pepper's gonna kill me when I tell her. Jarvis, remind me to have Legal draw up the lease agreement."

_"Annual or month-to-month, sir?"_

But Bucky's not following their banter; he's distracted by worry. The director may be gone, but what if his friends went with him? Fury couldn't have overpowered them, but he'd been alone with them for some time—long enough to convince them that Bucky would be safer alone? Clint's been known to do stupid, self-sacrificing things to protect Bucky, not to mention the influence a powerful dom could have on him. What if—

"What about my friends?" he calls to the voice in the ceiling, ignoring how his dominants turn to watch him. "Are they—" _still here?_ "—okay?"

_"Both guests are still in the main room."_

"Let's get you back to them, huh?" Tony says encouragingly, and the grateful smile Bucky finds for him is real, if small.

"Please," he says, and deliberately reaches for his hand.

Tony beams and threads their fingers together, and Steve nods at the two of them as he opens the door and gestures them through, corners of his lips tilting up just slightly. 

As he allows Tony to lead him by the hand, Bucky vows that he won't slip up like that again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanting is one thing. Taking is another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter benefited massively from crucial critiques by both samanthahirr and windsweptfic. You two are the best!

His friends aren't where he left them when he re-enters the main room. Bucky's already turning toward the most defensible point, the kitchen, when Clint calls, "Hey, Buck. Think fast!" 

He tugs his hand free of Tony's in time to catch the small projectile and blinks in bemusement at the green grape. He pops it into his mouth immediately. The fruit bursts with startling sweetness on his tongue, and he smiles at the unexpected pleasure.

He's aware of his doms' half-wary stance behind him, but he takes in his friends' strategic position behind the kitchen counter with an approving gaze. One of Clint's backup pistols is on the counter beside a large bowl of fruit, and a couple of the floor-to-ceiling cabinets behind him are still slightly ajar from their doubtlessly thorough sweep. Natasha's perched on the rear counter, peeling an orange with a wicked-looking stiletto and dropping the rind into the sink beside her. 

Bucky could wish their weaponry weren't so on display, but it's an instinct that's served them all well this past year. 

"I see you've discovered the pantry. I meant to tell you to help yourselves—god knows you could each stand to eat a horse—but it looks like you've already started. Alright, hot shot, grape me!" Tony claps his hands and holds them out toward Clint expectantly, but Clint narrows his eyes and remains silent. "I need some blood sugar, stat. Do you have any idea how many nutrients I sweated out on the way to meet you? I'm about three green smoothies low here."

Clint's continued glare is far more menacing than the situation calls for, and Bucky takes a step toward him, holding out his hand placatingly. "C'mon, play nice."

"I'm always nice," Clint says flatly, but he does toss a grape.

Tony catches it in his mouth, hardly needing to duck at all. "Sweet aim!" he exclaims while chewing. "You're hired. I'm keeping you on as my food-to-mouth delivery system. Save me a ton of time in my shop."

Clint's expression turns even more stormy. "Pretty sure I can choke you with the next one, _dominant_. Want to risk a fastball?" His hand drifts toward the gun on the counter.

"And we're back to terrifying. They say it's a major relationship milestone when the in-laws come to visit; I'm so glad we have this time to get to threaten each other."

No one smiles at Tony's joke, and Bucky puzzles over their behavior. Being in the presence of so many unfamiliar dominants would certainly have set Clint on edge. Bucky's more disappointed in Tony, who should know better than to refer to any of them as servants.

Steve clears his throat in the awkward silence. "Were you able to provide the director with any new targets?”

Bucky grimaces at the flare of resentment that burns in him. Hadn't Steve just promised him? Had his dom not listened to a word he said? Reminding himself to appear content, he directs his frown at the floor, silently glad when his friends fail to respond. 

Unfortunately their silence just prompts Steve to repeat the question. "Did you know of any HYDRA locations SHIELD hadn't already hit?"

Clint comes around the counter saying, "You okay, Buck?"

Grateful for the distraction, Bucky steps forward to meet him and throws his arm around Clint's stiff shoulders. "Yeah, I'm good," he says, trying on a smile and leading Clint back into the kitchen. "What'd you guys find in here? Any strawberries?"

"Incoming!" Natasha calls, tossing him a section of orange. He catches it in his teeth and closes his eyes at the perfect explosion of tart sugar, stifling an appreciative moan.

"The way you're acting, I guess it's been a while since you saw fresh fruit," Tony says, sliding onto a seat on the other side of the breakfast bar with a small smile. "The question is: How'd you all manage to avoid scurvy?"

"Even the shittiest bars put garnishes on a gin and tonic," Natasha says with an absolutely straight face. She hops down and offers Tony a piece of orange speared on the end of her blade.

"Sounds just like undergrad!" Tony takes the fruit gamely with his fingers but gives the weapon a suspicious look before putting the orange to his lips. "Do I want to know where that knife's been? Oh, what the hell. What's a few blood-borne pathogens between friends?"

Bucky can't help but smile at Tony's wink. Turning his attention to the mound of fruit, he spots a few red berries deep in the bowl. "Aha! You were hiding them," he exclaims, reaching up to ruffle Clint's hair playfully.

"Aww, c'mon. I was saving those," Clint whines, obviously making an effort to shake off his sulk. Despite his protest, he digs out the reddest strawberry and hands it to Bucky.

"The entire floor's clear," Steve announces, emerging from the hallway. Bucky pauses with the fruit halfway to his lips, surprised to realize he'd lost track of him. "And Jarvis assures me the other floors are also empty."

"The rooms?" Tony asks.

"Ready."

Bucky exchanges confused glances with his friends and turns to watch his doms expectantly.

"Right, so," Tony starts, standing and rubbing his hands together in excitement. "I had a whole spiel planned at some point, you know, grand tour, welcome to our home, our _casa es su casa_ , but it's been a long, awful—" he stops himself and shoots Bucky a longing look, then shakes his head and continues, "just, a really long day. And nobody wants a speech now, right? So let's skip the dancing teacups and get to the good stuff.

"You've found the kitchen, awesome; help yourselves whenever. We have guest rooms for all of you, a full bathroom in each, anything you could need—and if it's not there, I'll get it for you. There are clothes in your sizes. Those are just for now. We'll get you more once you tell us what you want, just say the word—"

"Bucky, you're welcome to join us," Steve says gently, cutting off Tony's anxious babble with a hand on his husband's shoulder. "We invite you to stay with us in our room. But we understand if you prefer to have your own."

Bucky feels caught out. "I..." he starts, mouth gaping helplessly. _What?_ He'd never thought to have his own room. All the times he's dreamed of coming to Tony and Steve, the many fantasies he'd indulged in, he's always been in their bed, touching them and being touched—. But his heart stutters at the very real prospect of being vulnerable to them like that, surrounded by them in the night.

He blinks and notices that his friends have frozen on either side of him. And in the next breath, Bucky finally realizes that he's placed himself in their defensible territory, a marble counter separating him from his doms, the three of them armed and able to fight back. He'd always imagined being with his dominants, yet he's already menaced Steve and abandoned Tony in the first hour.

"I can't," he admits, and it comes out in a harsh whisper.

"It's alright, sweetheart," Tony says sadly, and Bucky winces. "You can always come to us when you feel ready."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Why don't I show you all to your rooms so you can get cleaned up and changed?" Steve says, gracefully changing the topic. If he's surprised or wounded by Bucky's choice, he doesn't show it. "You'll order food?" he adds, directing the query at Tony.

"Yeah, go. Dinner will be here in less than an hour." Tony pauses and looks at the digital clock above the oven. It's not even noon. "Make that lunch. Christ, this day. Go on," he waves them off, already turning away and speaking to his AI.

\---

Bucky's got his forehead pressed to the window that makes up one wall of his bedroom, staring out at nothing when Natasha finds him. Her hands on his shoulders are a welcome interruption of his guilty thoughts.

"It's a nice view, isn't it?" she says, and Bucky pushes back into her familiar grip. "I was in Manhattan once, years ago. A banker. Old and gouty. Reeked of brandy."

"What are we doing here, Nat?"

"We're waiting."

"For what?"

He feels her shrug in the way her hands shift slightly on his shoulders.

"You know I grew up here?" he says eventually, long used to her silences. "See the bridge way out there? And the smoke stack a couple inches to the left? The highrise just behind it, you see it? I was raised in the shadow of that tower."

"Homesick?"

He snorts and presses his palm to the glass. "I haven't thought of the old neighborhood in years. Never wanted to go back, not after they shipped me out of state. Now here it is, but even though I can _see_ it, I may as well still be at Mentallo's base, as far away as it seems."

"This is certainly the nicest cell I've ever been in," she observes, voicing his sentiment exactly.

He turns away to pace the breadth of the room, stepping around the bed with its mountain of pillows and acres of expensive bedding.

"They're too good for me. They deserve someone better, someone who could be happy here."

Her voice follows him. "Some say Stark doesn't deserve his wealth. Because it was handed to him, or because of what he used to do with it." He tucks his arm around his chest and keeps his eyes down as he paces, unwilling to face her but unable to block out her words. "In my experience, deserving doesn't have anything to do with having. You only get the things you take for yourself."

He finally stops and closes his eyes. "I can't even be with them," he confesses. "I don't know how."

"Oh, _lapushka_." She approaches and strokes the hair back from his face. "You always make it harder on yourself."

He wants badly to beg for her guidance. Natasha always knows what's best. She could tell him how to secure his dominants, provide step by step instructions to win them over. It'd be a subtler manipulation than what he'd contemplated on the jet. Kinder, too; they might never realize he'd used them. He takes a breath to ask her advice but balks at crossing that line.

"You should be looking after yourself," he says instead, finally taking in the uniform she's still wearing.

"I will in a moment. You need more time than me, anyway. You've got special someones to look pretty for. Come on," she tilts her head and walks toward the en suite bathroom.

Bucky follows automatically, walking into her waiting hands and letting her unbutton the stolen uniform. She drops to a crouch to unlace his boots while he struggles out of the jacket and tee shirt. Natasha leaves him to handle his pants on his own, and there's no clang of old pipes as she turns on the shower, everything modern and perfectly silent. Holding her hand in the spray, she hums in satisfaction.

It feels good to borrow her calm certainty, but he makes himself think beyond the moment, to consider their situation here and what he owes them. "Is Clint okay?"

"I got him in the shower. He's doing his best to use up all the hot water himself." Her smile is indulgent.

"But nothing happened with Fury, right? Clint was so angry, I thought he was going to go for Tony."

"We talked about a lot of HYDRA locations. Even provided some new ones for SHIELD to hit tonight. It's a pleasant thought, isn't it?" she asks, blatantly sidestepping his question. "More of them will be dead in just a few hours—or behind bars, if SHIELD doesn't have the balls to kill them all."

"More old friends for us to run into in prison someday, you mean," he snarks. He lets her smack the back of his head.

"Be good," she chides, herding him toward the shower. But he stops and turns to her.

"Tash, I don't—I don't know what I'm doing," he blurts, stopping just shy of asking in words.

She tsks. "It's not so difficult. First you're going to get cleaned up. I want you to take your time and enjoy it, because you _can_. You're going to shave and get dressed, and everything that happens afterward is your choice. Do you want more from them? Then take it. Do you want space? You can take that, too.

"But decide what you really want—not what you think we need. I won't watch you sacrifice your own happiness again." He can feel his eyes starting to water, but she continues, "You give only what you want to give; they don't get to push you, and you stop pushing yourself."

"You're sure it's that easy?" he says shakily.

She strokes his stubble fondly with the back of her fingers, but when he leans into her touch, she pats his cheek. "Go on now. And be sure to shave. Show them what they're not getting yet," she finishes with a twinkle in her eyes.

Bucky manages a smile for her before she heads out the door.

Her simple instructions are what get him through the act of showering. He avails himself of the shaving supplies and then stays under the powerful spray until his fingers turn pruny, enjoying the rare, hedonistic pleasure of unlimited hot water.

He finds a stack of black fabric on the bedroom dresser: identical sets of tee shirts, sweat pants, and underwear, all branded with the Stark Industries logo. Amusement bubbles warm in his belly at the fact that his doms' name will be splayed across his buttocks.

The metal arm hangs dead at his side when he finishes dressing, and he frowns at it. He's not used to leaving it dangling, had grown accustomed to wearing a sling to lessen the oddness of the limb's immobility. He could ask his dominants for a new sling.

But while studying the arm, he spots the Stark logo on his chest again and feels another swell of happiness. He smooths his hair back absently and admires the simple evidence of their claim. A sling would cover up their name. And besides, he's not on the run anymore; there's no need to conceal the prosthetic.

He wipes the fog from the bathroom mirror to check for any missed stubble and pauses, blinking at the gaunt, lined face that looks back at him. He tucks his hair behind his ears, one side at a time, and takes a good long look at the fugitive in the reflection. The naive boy from Brooklyn is gone, and Bucky is someone else. Angrier, more desperate, but someone who still _wants_ to be good for them. Wants to be slower to anger, grateful for everything they give him, accepting of their touches.

Tasha told him to decide what he wants, and right now he wants to see his dominants smile and to smile for them in return—as best as he's able. He's as clean now as he's ever going to be, smooth-faced and wearing fresh clothes; they'll want to touch him like this, and he wants that, too. He doesn't deserve them, and he's no good for them, but right now he wants them. And maybe that'll be enough.

He can try.

He squares his shoulder and sets off in search of his dominants.

Noises and the smell of food lead him to the main room, where he finds Steve and Tony setting out a mountain of takeout boxes on the long table. There must be 30 or more cartons, and Bucky even spies a short stack of pizza boxes on the kitchen counter.

"What on earth?" he blurts. They pause and flash him matching, wide smiles.

"Lunch!" Tony declares. "I know we promised to take you for Thai, but with Big Brother peeping over our shoulders, Thai came to you instead. Didn't know what dishes you liked, though, so I ordered the whole menu."

He gapes, astonished that they remembered what he'd once told them. The conversation must have been half a year ago, but they'd hoarded this inconsequential fact about him and kept a promise that could easily have been forgotten. There's a pressure in his throat, and he blinks hard, trying to get his emotions under control.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, moving toward him, but then his friends are walking past, gaping at the staggering amount of food.

Clint says nothing for a moment, then demands, "Tell me you've got dumplings."

"I've got five different kinds of dumpling, Barton. Grab a pair of chopsticks and help me put a dent in this feast, huh?" Tony's joviality must be catching, or perhaps Natasha had lectured Clint, too, because he smiles warily and takes a seat at the table.

She glides into the chair beside Clint. "I'm surprised you could get a delivery up here. Aren't these floors locked down?"

Steve frowns and crosses his arms. "SHIELD's security isn't in place yet. But we did have the front desk staff place it in the elevator. Jarvis brought it up."

Her lips quirk like she finds Steve's adherence to the spirit of his agreement laughable. "Commendable of you," she says.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Tony is mumbling with his mouth full. "Once Fury gets his checkpoint in place, we won't be able to get anything delivered without SHIELD's grubby fingers all up in it."

"I've eaten worse," Clint scoffs, and shoves an entire dumpling in his mouth.

Tony points his chopsticks at Clint, swallows, then says, "People who've been eating out of dumpsters don't get to vote on my food hygiene."

"Aren't you hungry?" Steve asks from right beside Bucky.

His breath catches as he looks up at his dom, so handsome and approachable in a soft-looking grey henley. There's no trace of blood or injury now. His hair is damp and spiky, and up close he smells like soap and warm skin. Bucky wants badly to press his face to Steve's chest and breathe him in.

He shakes himself and gives a small smile. "Yeah, please. I can't believe you remembered about this," he says, indicating the menu's-worth of food on the table. He chooses a seat and allows his dom to pull out the chair and push it in behind him, hyper aware of Steve's hands lingering on the chair back, so close to his shoulders, long after the movement is complete. He closes his eyes and _aches_ for Steve to touch him, but Steve pulls away to sit beside him without doing so.

"Speaking of deliveries, how did you manage the clothes?" Natasha's saying, one hand curled around a carton of fried rice and clutching it to her chest, obscuring her own Stark Industries logo. 

"Well, it was short notice, but one benefit of being obscenely wealthy is you can get anything delivered immediately," Tony boasts.

"The fit is surprisingly accurate."

"Jarvis scanned you when you boarded the Quinjet. Oh, don't give me that look, Barton, it's not like you're surprised." Clint is glaring at Tony again, but he hasn't stopped chewing, so Bucky doesn't think he's actually upset. "I sent the sizes to Pep, and she arranged everything else—the cleaners, beds, etc."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Does she usually handle your errands? I thought Ms. Potts had an empire to run."

Tony grins wolfishly. "She's been trying to teach me self-sufficiency, but I'm slow to learn new tricks."

"She's CEO of your company, right?" Bucky asks nervously.

"She's queen of the world," Tony insists, and Bucky twitches involuntarily. "My life would be a shambles without her. Pepper's on a jet back from Shanghai at the moment, or she'd have been here to welcome you. I'd wanted so badly to introduce you, but with SHIELD throwing their weight around it looks like it'll be a while before you meet face to face."

Bucky relaxes at the news he won't have to face Pepper Potts right away. The affection in Tony's voice makes it clear that she's important to him, and Bucky is petrified of meeting any of his doms' friends.

"Pass the pad thai if you're not eating it, Buck," Clint says, kicking him under the table. Bucky pushes the container toward his friend, but Clint catches his eye with a concerned expression. Realizing his worry must have shown on his face, he smiles. Clint's brows furrow in response.

"Here, have you had panang before?" Steve asks, holding a dish out to him. "It's one of my favorites."

Their fingers don't brush in the handover. Bucky tries a bite and enjoys the sweet sting of curry. "It's good. I usually get green curry."

"I think I saw that one over here, hang on," Steve says.

Talk moves to everyone's favorite dishes, and they take turns urging the others to taste each one. Bucky watches jealously as Tony feeds a coconut shrimp to Steve, hand cupped beneath his husband's jaw in case his chopsticks slip at the last moment. He wishes he had that ease and familiarity with his dominants.

It's unsurprising that Clint and Tony end up goading each other to try the spiciest dishes. Steve rolls his eyes as the competition escalates, while Bucky trades amused glances with Natasha.

"Drunken noodles is nothing. You've got to go full on tom yum," Tony's saying, and the glint in Clint's eye means he's not backing down anytime soon.

"Let's see what you've got then, Stark."

Tony opens the translucent soup container, and even across the table, Bucky's eyes water from the spicy steam. Tony coughs but tries to play it off as nothing, and Clint continues to egg him on.

They both jerk in surprise when Natasha leans over Clint and plunges her chopsticks into the plastic bowl. She pulls out a dark red pepper and pops it in her mouth, chewing contemplatively as she sits back. 

Everyone around the table gapes and waits for a reaction, but eventually she makes a small face. "I've had better. Pass the eggplant." Tony hands her the carton in awed silence. 

Over dessert Tony launches into a lengthy anecdote from his days at MIT involving an experimental hang glider prototype and National Park security at Mount Rushmore. Steve smiles fondly, obviously familiar with the story, but the rest of them are caught up in Tony's death-defying antics even as they slump back in their chairs, relaxing after the feast.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky notices Steve shift in his seat, and then he sees Steve's left hand inch along the table toward his own right. _Yes_ , Bucky thinks, anxious for his dom's touch. He risks a look at Steve under his eyelashes, but Steve is carefully watching his husband. Steve's hand slides closer, so slowly that Bucky does his best not to fidget as he waits, tracking its progress with eager eyes.

When only a few inches separate them, Bucky turns his own hand palm up and extends his fingers slightly in welcome. Steve hesitates for a moment, and then his hand settles large and warm over Bucky's.

Heat blossoms in his chest, and he holds his breath at the overwhelming sensation. He ducks his head, staring at their clasped hands as Steve laces their fingers together and squeezes gently. He squeezes back. He's aware of Steve turning to look at him, but he keeps his eyes down, not sure he could contain his emotions if he met his dominant's gaze.

Steve's thumb strokes the length of his, and Bucky sighs with pleasure, happier than he's been in ages. His friends are nearby, their guard finally relaxed. His belly is fuller than it's been in a year. He sinks deeper into his chair and focuses on the heat of Steve's palm pressed to his and the rise and fall of Tony's voice.

Steve squeezes his hand some time later, and Bucky blinks his eyes open. He doesn't remember closing them.

Tony's still speaking, but his words are coming slower, slurred slightly. His friends' eyes are heavy-lidded, and Bucky watches as Clint yawns hugely.

"Does this story have an end, Tony?" Steve asks. 

Tony's head bobs up with a startled "Whaa?"

"You're asleep in your chair, babe. We're all tired. Let's call it a day, okay?"

"I already called it a day, but it won't do me the courtesy of ending. Sun's still in the goddamn sky, smug bastard," Tony mumbles, the pauses between phrases slower than normal speech.

Bucky finds him adorable like this, from his threadbare Manowar shirt to the bit of sticky rice in his goatee. He imagines leading Tony to a second shower and then tucking him into bed, curling up beside him and keeping him warm. Steve would help him support Tony's weight, he's sure. He smiles at the domestic fantasy.

He glances up at Steve and finds him watching. In the intensity of his hopeful gaze, Bucky can read the invitation to change his mind and join them in their bed. It had hurt to turn them down before, to close the door on his own dreams. The bed in his room stands cold and lonely; he could sleep pressed between his dominants' powerful bodies instead.

The surge of want that jolts through him is staggering. Bucky looks down at the broad expanse of Steve's torso, itching to explore every unseen inch. If only he could. If only he were different, better.

Steve squeezes his hand again, thumb rubbing slow circles into his skin.

He had said he would try. Bucky licks his lips nervously and considers his reply.

"We gave the director six HYDRA locations today," Natasha announces. "I suspect he already knew about two of them." 

Steve's hand goes slack as his head whips around to stare at her, and Bucky blinks, suddenly cold without the heat of Steve's attention.

"Which bothers you more, Captain? That you're not going tonight, or that he was keeping some back from you?" Her tone is arch, meant to provoke.

Steve doesn't answer her for long enough that tension gathers across Bucky's shoulders. He looks down at their hands, and his skin crawls; they're still touching, but his dominant has already forgotten about him. He holds himself very, very still and waits.

Finally Steve clears his throat. "Which two?" he asks, indirectly answering her question.

She smiles one of her enigmatic little smiles and slides her eyes significantly in Bucky's direction. 

Bucky tries to relax his frown, but Steve catches the expression. His dominant winces and looks contrite; it'd be endearing if Bucky weren't angry with all three of them.

"I'm not going. I promised," Steve assures him, tightening his grip on Bucky's hand too late.

Bucky jerks away and stumbles to his feet, disgusted with himself. He'd sold himself a pretty fiction, had succumbed to blind optimism and nearly tumbled into bed with a dominant that could be so easily distracted from his presence. Bucky'd known he wasn't ready for this; he really can't trust himself around them. If Natasha hadn't saved him—

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Bucky, please." Steve stands and reaches for him, but Bucky moves out of reach.

He should fix this. Should smile and nod, say of course he believes Steve; it would be the sweeter option. But he can't seem to make his lips cooperate. He should make a joke and laugh the moment off. He tries to think of something funny, but it's all skewing bitter, so he says nothing.

He finally turns his face away when he becomes aware of Natasha and Clint coming around the table to flank him. Tony is wide awake now but frozen in his chair, staring up at Steve and Bucky.

When he looks back, Steve's hands are down at his sides, clenching and releasing like he wants to grab something. Bucky remembers Steve's hands on him during their earlier argument, how tight his dom's grip had been, the shocking sensation of possession that had swept over him. He shivers, confused by the conflicting feelings the memory stirs.

Steve's face falls then, and he nods once as though to say _Understood_. His small smile doesn't reach his eyes when he addresses all three of them, "Thank you for eating with us. I hope you sleep well. Please let Jarvis know if you need anything tonight." 

Bucky hears the window of opportunity close and he watches numbly as Steve turns to pack up the leftover food. He takes one last look at Tony's face as it slowly crumples in dismay, and then follows his friends down the hall to their separate bedrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**  
>  _lapushka_ = little paw


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's having trouble sleeping.

Bucky rolls over for the hundredth time and groans, grabbing a handful of his own hair and twisting hard in frustration.

_"Sergeant Barnes, please pardon the intrusion,"_ the voice of the AI says from somewhere in the darkened bedroom, and Bucky bolts upright, abruptly filled with dread.

He hasn't used that rank in years, and hearing it brings back memories of useless repetition: name, rank, and serial number. His voice is hoarse when he demands, "What is it?"

_"I apologize for disturbing you. But one of your companions is in the main room and appears to be on the verge of doing something—"_ there's a fractional pause _"—ill advised. As you are already awake, I thought you might wish to speak to him."_

Clint.

Cursing his inattentiveness, Bucky scrambles out of the bed, fumbling for his discarded pants and shirt and dragging them on with difficulty. His wits catch up with him a few moments later, and he pauses before opening the bedroom door.

"Have you alerted my—the Starks, too?"

_"I have not. I deemed you most likely to effect a positive outcome."_

It's a small relief. If Clint's worked up, the last thing he needs is strangers rushing toward him.

"I'll handle him," he tells the computer, and quietly enters the hallway.

Clint is walking on his hands. 

No, not walking. _Pacing._ Five "steps" forward, a graceful spin, five back, spin again and repeat in the dimly illuminated main room. Bucky's only seen Clint do this when he's particularly restless. The AI had been right to notify him; Clint shouldn't be alone right now—especially not pacing directly in front of the elevator like a caged animal. 

He shouldn't have brought Clint here, he thinks guiltily. His friends were safer on the run, without the stress of confinement or the imminent threat of multiple governments passing sentence on them. Bucky'd made a selfish choice in Latveria, succumbing to feeble-minded fantasy and endangering them all. He has to take care of them now. Their predicament is his responsibility. 

When his eyes have fully adjusted to the ambient light of the city outside, he walks down the hallway, saying lightly, "I heard you were up."

Clint finishes his circuit away and back, then his whole body flexes in an impressive maneuver that lands him on his feet. "Did I pull you out of their bed?" he asks, his eyes flicking past Bucky to peer into the dark hall.

Bucky shakes his head. "I was alone. Thought you'd be in Natasha's bed." The jealous thought had come to Bucky as he'd tossed and turned the afternoon away, mind racing in maddening circles and only pillows where he was accustomed to holding his friends. Lying in the artificial dark, he'd assumed that he was the only one in a solitary bed. In his weaker moments he'd considered seeking them out, but in his dominants' home the idea had felt somehow taboo.

Looking at Clint now, twitchy in a tee shirt and boxers, a knife strapped to his calf, Bucky curses his own self-absorption.

"Couldn't sleep?" Bucky asks, determined to discover and fix whatever's bothering him.

Clint stretches, rolling his shoulders and pulling his arms over his head. "Bed's too soft. Fucking lap of luxury around here."

Ignoring the deflection, Bucky steps out into the main room. The window casings and the furniture cast strange shadows in the light from the skyscrapers below, and it's a moment before he's comfortable turning his back on the room to face his friend. "I thought you'd enjoy living the high life for a while. Sick of it already?"

Clint follows his glance to the elevator, and then looks away. "I wasn't going anywhere," he mutters defensively.

"Are you okay with all this?" Bucky asks with a gesture that encompasses the apartment and the city beyond. "I know you agreed to come with me, but you couldn't have been imagining house arrest—"

"I expected Guantanamo—if they didn't execute me first. So far this place is way nicer. Haven't decided about the jailers yet, but the hardwood floors are a treat."

Bucky blanches at the brutal image but makes himself shake it off, focusing on the thread of truth in Clint's flippant words. "We haven't dealt much with dominants in the past year. And now we're locked in with them."

"You're the one who has to worry about them. They don't even know I'm here."

"That doesn't mean you're comfortable being around them."

Clint makes a face. "I'm cool, Buck. Promise." He groans theatrically. "But, man, I'm starving. There were leftovers, right?"

Allowing the question to slide for the moment, Bucky follows him toward the kitchen. "I'm pretty sure they ordered pizza, too."

"For real?" The genuine excitement in his voice speaks to his years in captivity. For as long as Bucky's known him, Clint has been missing 'real' pizza. 

Lights flick on automatically in the kitchen as Clint enters, but they remain mercifully dim. Bucky takes a seat at the counter and watches his friend poke around in the refrigerator.

Clint wrestles with several boxes, lifting the lids just enough to peer inside before emerging with a triumphant grin. "Pepperoni!" he announces, dropping a box on the counter between them and throwing back the top. 

They help themselves to slices of cold pizza, and Bucky feels a pang of nostalgia at the familiar taste, while Clint hums enthusiastically. Bucky's reluctant to break the companionable silence, but after a few minutes he ventures, "You ready to talk about why you were haunting the elevator?"

Clint shrugs and takes another bite. 

Bucky sighs. "You're picking fights and pacing by the exit. Something's not right. What is it?"

"You know me, always testing boundaries."

Bucky shakes his head, rejecting the explanation. Clint tended to mouth off to HYDRA's dominants, but he'd _always_ followed their orders. They'd have considered his display in front of the elevator disobedience.

"I think it's the dominants. And it's my fault."

Clint says nothing, but his sudden stillness tells Bucky he's on the right track. 

"With what happened on the jet and then leaving you and Natasha alone with the SHIELD dominant—I'm sorry, Clint, I haven't been thinking." Bucky makes himself stop there; Clint hates to hear him descend into self-recrimination. 

After a long moment his friend clears his throat and sets down the slice in his hands. "Don't be mad, Buck," he starts, voice tight and uncertain, "but on the jet, with them. What was that? You were really gone for them."

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. "It wasn't anything bad. It wasn't scary or whatever. I wanted it." He hesitates then, knowing he needs to give Clint more, but unsure what's safe to reveal.

Clint's been overly susceptible to dominants his whole life, and Bucky and Natasha have spent years trying to get him to stand up for himself and overcome his dependency. He's made amazing strides this past year, has denounced the conditioned urge to please. Bucky doesn't want to risk undermining Clint's progress by talking about how good it felt to surrender to his doms, to trust them to bear all of his burdens for even a short while.

"It must be the bond," he says instead, and a little of his earlier frustration sneaks into his voice. "I've never had this problem with dominants before. It's like they're under my skin, past all my defenses. I mean to be careful around them, but I keep forgetting myself when they're near." Bucky'd spent hours this afternoon castigating himself for how close he'd come to entering their bed against his better judgment.

"You _have_ been pretty starry-eyed all day," Clint says.

"It's a temptation, but I'm fighting it. I'm going to do better, I swear. I'm not going to forget about you two."

Clint scowls. "What's this talk about fighting? I thought you came here to bond with them. This was supposed to make you better, but you still look like shit. Don't even pretend you slept today."

Of course they've realized something's wrong. He doesn't know how to explain his dominants' decision to postpone the bond without angering Clint, who refuses to hear Bucky speak ill of himself. And he can't let Clint know that he plans to seduce his doms to ensure his friends' safety. Natasha has already hinted that she wouldn't stand for it; Clint would go ballistic.

And truthfully, he's not sure how he's going to manage any sort of campaign to win them. It seems he can't even get close to Steve or Tony without losing his head, and if he tries to rush things, he's liable to freak out and scare them off entirely. Just thinking about it makes him anxious again. He has to do something, but he doesn't know _how_. 

Bucky finally prevaricates rather than give the whole truth. "It's nothing, I've just been worried about you guys—"

There's a scuffle of feet from the hallway, and they both turn, poised to flee or fight. Despite Tony's invitation to help themselves to the kitchen, the instinct to hide is ingrained; it's served them well this past year.

Moments later Steve steps into the room. He stops when he spots them, and Bucky notices he's wearing the same clothes he'd had on earlier. 

Clint recovers first, demanding, "What the hell? Are you spying on us?"

"I just got off the phone," Steve says, spreading his hands. "I saw the lights on and came to see who else was up."

"Talking to SHIELD, I'll bet. Checking in on the attacks on HYDRA."

"Clint, cool it," Bucky starts, but Steve shrugs like he doesn't mind.

"I was on the phone with Pepper just now. She's scheduling the video conference with the legal team tomorrow, so I wanted to bring her into the loop. But yes, before that I was on the phone with Fury. I was trying to prove whether Romanova's accusation was true. I'm not sure I believe the Director's response—or lack thereof."

Bucky exchanges a surprised look with Clint. "Then...you don't wish you were out there tonight?"

"I don't want to be anywhere but right here," Steve says, approaching the lit kitchen and coming to stand beside Bucky at the breakfast bar, though he leaves a couple of feet between them. "I wish SHIELD luck in their efforts tonight; HYDRA is a threat that has to be neutralized. But my part in that is done now."

Bucky blinks up at him in astonishment.

On the other side of the counter, Clint snorts. "And he's supposed to take your word for it?"

"That's enough!" Bucky scolds, a little harsher than he intends. 

But Steve doesn't seem offended. "I've never lied to him," he tells Clint solemnly. "And I never will."

Bucky watches Clint flush in embarrassment at the attention.

"You've all been through a lot of upheaval recently. I get it." Steve glances at the pizza between them and turns to Clint. "There's juice, soda, and water in the fridge if you're thirsty."

Obviously relieved for the excuse, Clint dives for the refrigerator.

"Sorry, we're a bit jet lagged," Bucky offers. It's far from the whole truth, but he's reluctant to bring up Clint's behavior by the elevator.

"It's fine," Steve says quietly. "Do you mind if I have some of that?"

Bucky jumps a bit and pushes the box toward his dom belatedly.

Eyes on the pizza before him, Steve asks, "Are you upset that I called SHIELD tonight," voice emotionless like he'd accept any answer.

Bucky finds himself saying, "No, of course not," before he even stops to think about it. But after a moment's consideration, he realizes he spoke the truth. "You've said you're not going. I believe you." 

It's only when Steve’s smile becomes real that Bucky realizes his pleasantly neutral expression was a frown.

Compelled to explain his earlier outburst, Bucky continues, "I understand why you want them destroyed. Of course you want to see it through. It's just...we all did things this past year that maybe we're not so proud of now. The bond made us all a little crazy. I don't want you getting hurt again, and especially not getting any more blood on your hands," he says, but falls silent before completing the sentiment: _because of me_.

His dominant takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before saying, "I've spent the last year so angry. I couldn't see past it. Maybe you're right, and it's the bond. Or maybe it's really me." Steve's eyes, when he raises them, are a brilliant blue, and it feels like they can see right into Bucky's soul. "But here you are, and after everything they've done to you, you just want me to be careful and stay safe. And I will, Bucky. I'll be anything you want me to be. Anything you need, just tell me."

The urge to reach out is overwhelming. Bucky stares at Steve's hand on the counter, and the anxious feeling winds tighter. Now is the time; he needs to do it. But it's too late at night, too intimate in their little island of light in the darkness. If he overcommits again....

Clint saves him from his indecision, returning with a glass of water for Bucky. 

"So where's your better half?" Clint asks Steve, and Bucky's relieved to finally hear good-natured teasing in his friend's tone.

Steve leans back and smiles, gamely changing topics. "He's still asleep. I'm hoping he makes it all the way through 'til morning. He hasn't gotten much sleep lately, especially this past week. He was due a crash."

Bucky hides his wince behind a sip of water.

Clint must spot it, though, because he continues the conversation on Bucky's behalf. "You look pretty bushy-tailed for a guy who spent last night in a drugged stupor. HYDRA's cocktails usually take it out of a man."

Steve shrugs. "The super-soldier serum means I don't need much sleep or recovery time. I do require a lot of calories to keep up with my metabolism, though," he adds, neatly folding a cold slice and bringing it to his mouth.

Bucky manages a smile then and takes another slice for himself. "Help yourself. There are three more whole pies in there. You guys ordered enough for an army."

"Hey, not so fast, Buck. Don't go giving away the only pepperoni. The rest all have veggies on 'em."

"You looked like you could use the extra nutrition," Steve says.

"But _broccoli_ ," Clint whines. "It's a crime against proper New York pizza."

"I pick off the broccoli, myself," Steve admits, and Clint chokes and coughs in surprise. Steve's grinning at him, and something between Bucky's shoulders relaxes a little to see them starting to get along. 

"Well, I'll eat whatever," Bucky volunteers. "Never been very picky."

"Oh, don't tell Tony that; you'd break his heart. He lives to enable pickiness."

"I suppose being a quadrillionaire, you learn to flaunt it. That explain this monstrosity?" Clint asks, eyeing the intimidating piece of machinery on the counter beside him. It's sleek and shiny, resembling a warhead more than a kitchen appliance. Bucky recognizes some parts as related to coffee preparation, but there are tubes and switches he can't account for. "I don't know whether to order an espresso or annihilate a small city."

Bucky stifles a bark of laughter. "Maybe just Manhattan. Wouldn't take more than, what, a couple dozen megatons?"

Steve is still smiling, but Bucky suddenly worries he'll find their gallows humor inappropriate. He reminds himself that Steve only learned about the history of nuclear weapons and their devastation a few years ago, and feels guilty for his callousness. So he's surprised when Steve offers, "It's smaller than the Red Skull's bombs, but since Tony built it, I'm sure it'd pack more of a wallop."

Clint squints at the various knobs. "It does make coffee, though, right? Am I gonna need an instruction manual?"

"Oh, Jarvis can run it for you."

They blink. "Isn't Jarvis the AI?"

"He's wired into most of the place, including the kitchen. Just tell him how you like your coffee."

Bucky's not entirely comfortable with ordering anyone around, let alone an invisible butler. "We don't need to be a bother."

"Speak for yourself," Clint scoffs. "Okay, _Jarvis_ , how's your cappuccino game?"

_"Traditional, wet, or dry, sir?"_

Clint's eyes light up with excitement.

"Stick to decaf," Bucky tells him firmly. "Jet lag, remember?"

Steve chimes in, "You do need to get up in the morning. The call with Legal is at 9."

Clint sticks out his tongue at them both, but he orders a decaffeinated drink.

Bucky watches Steve finish his first slice of pizza and reach for another. He remembers to lift his own slice to his mouth and chews distractedly. He's able to hold the slice one-handed only because it's been refrigerated. If it were hot, he'd need help folding it in half and supporting the flimsy crust. He pictures Steve holding it to his mouth, maybe cupping his chin with his gentle fingers like Tony had done at lunch. The thought makes him feel warm all over.

"Oh my god, this is amazing," Clint croons, and Bucky blinks, finding his friend holding the tiny cup out to him over the counter. "Here, try this."

Bucky declines but takes the opportunity to clear his head. He'd gone 'starry-eyed' again. To cover for his distraction, he asks, "So if you don't need much sleep, what do you do all night?"

Steve and Bucky both ignore Clint's snicker. 

"I work out some. There's a gym on the next floor down; I'll show you guys tomorrow. It's also when I catch up on pop culture," Steve says with a nod over at the couches. "Tony recommends a ton of movies, but he doesn't actually have the time to watch them all with me, so night's a good time for them."

"Where's your TV? Oh shit, that's huge!" Clint exclaims as a large projector screen lowers from the ceiling, blocking out a third of the windows in the room. "It's like a movie theater!"

"Jarvis has access to pretty much anything that's ever been digitized. Just say the word, and he'll put it on for you."

"This place just got a hundred times cooler. C'mon, Buck!" Clint grabs the mostly empty pizza box in one hand and Bucky's shoulder in the other, dragging him to the couches. "I haven't been to the movies in six years. I've got some catching up to do."

Bucky's too pleased to see Clint acting like himself again to protest. He laughs as Clint positions him on the sofa and throws himself down across Bucky's lap, balancing the box on his own chest.

"What are we watching?" he asks, bemused, and adjusts his left arm so Clint will be more comfortable.

"You said they made a new Indiana Jones movie, right?"

Bucky groans.

Taking a seat on the couch adjoining theirs, Steve says, "I've watched the first three of those. Tony forbade me from seeing the recent one, though."

"That's because it's terrible," Bucky insists.

"That's why it's perfect! You promised me ridiculous Nazis and monkeys and aliens."

"I don't know how ridiculous it'll be now that aliens are real," Bucky says, gesturing to the skyline beyond the enormous screen.

"Yeah, well, Nazis are real, too, and I could use a good laugh at their expense. Bring it on, Jarvis!"

Bucky looks to Steve for support, but his dom is smiling indulgently. 

He throws his own head back into the cushion of the leather couch and sighs, giving up. If humoring Clint tonight will help him settle in, Bucky won't stop him.

A little while later, as the film grows increasingly ludicrous, Bucky can't keep from rolling his eyes. In his peripheral vision he catches Steve watching him, not the movie, and he notices that Steve's right hand is wrapped around his left wrist, where Bucky'd squeezed hard enough to hurt, had ground the bones together, white-knuckled and shaking, just hours ago.

Bucky immediately fixes his eyes on the screen before him, but the images are a blur. His cheeks are hot with shame, and his heart feels like it's going to shatter his ribs. Clint shifts uneasily against him, doubtless feeling his tension, and Bucky instinctively ruffles his hair to reassure him. 

He's done everything wrong here, lashing out at Steve and then nearly throwing himself into his power. Neither action has helped his friends. Earlier he'd tried focusing on what he thought he wanted, and in doing so he'd forgotten what really matters. 

Clint has spent the last half hour utterly relaxed against him, snickering in delight at a stupid movie, unconcerned with enemies or survival. It's nearly everything Bucky's ever wanted for him, and he owes it to Clint to secure him this future. And Natasha, too.

Bucky should be doing everything in his power to make this permanent. He should be on the other couch right now, in Steve's arms, cuddling sweetly and allowing his dominant to touch him however he wants. He suppresses a shiver and sets his jaw, already planning how best to extricate himself from Clint. Or perhaps he should gesture Steve closer; there's room at the end of Bucky's sofa. He could reach out and hold Steve's hand. Clint's presence would keep him from attempting too much. Would that be sufficient? Or would a dom's proximity upset Clint?

Bucky swallows and slides his hand a few inches along the cushion in Steve's direction. 

He's just raising his eyes toward Steve when Natasha suddenly climbs over the back of the couch in an inelegant sprawl of knees and elbows. Bucky and Clint both yelp and flail, but eventually she settles on Bucky's right side, and he catches the intoxicating scent of melted cheese and oven-hot bread.

She's got a plate in her lap with two slices of reheated pizza. Bucky spots Steve gaping between her and the kitchen, and he smirks. The fact that none of them noticed her behind them is unsurprising; he's long since grown accustomed to her ninja-like ways. 

She leans over him and hands Clint one of the hot slices, and his _ooh_ of appreciation quickly turns into a groan of disappointment. "Aww, veggie?"

"Eat all of it," she orders, and then snuggles into Bucky, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder as she starts eating her own slice. Natasha's leg presses against his, and he can feel the edge of her thigh-holster through her shorts. She's only carrying a knife, he observes; she must have decided they're safe here.

Bucky curls his arm around her shoulder and strokes her hair from habit. Their happiest moments have all been like this, the three of them huddled close, the rest of the world briefly forgotten. 

He flicks a glance at his dominant and finds Steve watching them with an unreadable expression. The accompanying twinge of guilt is familiar, but beckoning Steve closer is impossible in this position, and Bucky wouldn't disturb his friends for the world. They deserve what happiness they can find in this new place. 

Clint and Natasha finish eating and squirm closer to him, and Natasha reaches across him to rake her nails through Clint's hair in a soothing rhythm. The weight of their bodies is warm and comforting, clean smell of their skin and quiet humming noises, and before Bucky knows it his eyelids are drooping heavily. 

He eventually forces his eyes open and sees that neither of them are paying full attention to the movie; they're watching Steve out of the corner of their eyes. They're standing guard over Bucky, as they have this past year.

He should intervene, should reassure all of them that everything's alright, but he feels so safe and so exhausted that it's too much effort to speak. He can't even raise his head to see Steve's reaction to their wary observation, so he tries to remember what expression had been on Steve's face a few minutes before. He hadn't looked jealous, exactly. Had that been wistfulness? Maybe tenderness?

"Is this the one with the monkeys?" Natasha whispers to Clint.

Bucky doesn't hear his answer. Wrapped in their loving arms, he lets his eyes drift closed and finally, finally relaxes into sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets closer to one of his dominants.

It's a short ride down two floors to Tony's workshop, and Bucky's distracted enough to let the AI handle it. But when he's faced with the glass doors ahead of him, he hesitates.

_"In your own time, Sergeant."_

Bucky startles and steps off the elevator. "Is he expecting me?"

_"I have not alerted him to your approach."_

"I'd be interrupting him. I shouldn't—" Bucky catches himself and takes a deep breath. He drags his palm down his hip, trying to let go of his tension as he advances to stop a couple yards before the doorway. 

"How do I...?" 

_"Mr. Stark has granted you full access to this level. The doors will open automatically."_

Bucky allows himself one second to blink at that, then swallows hard and steps forward with intent.

The instant the glass panels slide apart, Bucky hears a strange thumping and dragging noise, accompanied by Tony's sharp voice.

"—sticking out of his neck like he's a piece of fucking—" there's a strained grunt, then the tirade resumes, "stereo equipment. I swear, Bruce, I'm going to find the sick bastard who invented those damned things and I'm going to ruin him. I'll take his life apart piece by miserable piece." 

Bucky pauses in the doorway. When he'd left Steve and the others upstairs, he'd planned to find Tony alone, not in conversation with someone. Aware that the watchful AI will certainly give his position away if he lingers too long, he steps silently into the lab, keeping his back to the wall.

His dominant's back is turned, giving Bucky a view of his ass in worn denim when he bends and lifts a thick bundle of cords from the floor. Tony grunts as he heaves the loop of cabling around the large base of a bizarre twist of metal and pistons.

An unfamiliar voice says, _\- "Control collars have been around for decades. You're a little late to punish their inventor." -_

"Well then I'm going to destroy the reputation of whatever institution granted that quack a medical degree. Every diploma they've issued in the last century won't be worth the paper it's printed on. _C'mere_ , you heavy bastard." 

_\- "Yes, that sounds entirely reasonable." -_

"You haven't seen them, Bruce, so I don't want to hear it." Tony snaps, dropping his armful of cabling and standing to face someone out of Bucky's view. "I didn't call for anger management counselling."

Bucky inches to the side and sees an entire wall of monitors, currently displaying a dark-haired, bespectacled man standing in a lab. He silently curses himself for not realizing that, just like the call this morning, the Starks evidently prefer videoconferencing to telephones. He stays frozen, not sure if he's put himself in range of the camera.

 _\- "Apparently you called so I could watch you clean. I appreciate the rare sight of you putting your toys away, but I do have my own work to do." -_ The man narrows his eyes. _\- "You're not making space for me to come back, are you, Tony? You know I'm not signing up for SHIELD custody." -_

Tony sighs and wipes his brow. "I know it, Limeade. It'd be good to have you here, but I'm not dragging you into all this. You're good at the Mansion. No, I'm moving on to new projects, is all, and I need to pick your magnificent brain. How well do you know the field of neurosurgery?"

_\- "Oh, no. No way. I'm not touching them. You're **not** asking this of me, Tony. I'm not the person you want for this." -_

Bucky recoils from the man's vehement denial, bumping into the machinery beside him. It whirs to life, one long, metal arm swinging upright and rotating in his direction. He bites back a curse and sidesteps, then checks to see if Tony's noticed. His dominant is oblivious, but when Bucky peeks back at the screen, Bruce is looking right at him.

"Ffft, not with fumblefingers like yours. But I've found a candidate, and—"

 _\- "Are you going to introduce us?" -_ Bruce cuts in. 

Tony follows his friend's gaze to Bucky's hiding spot, and his face breaks out in a pleased smile.

Bucky feels his own lips automatically curve in response.

"Bruce," Tony says, and holds out his hand, inviting Bucky to step reluctantly to his side. "This is James Buchanan Barnes. _Bucky_." Tony's eyes go soft on the nickname, and Bucky finds himself squeezing Tony's hand helplessly. 

"And Bucky, this is Dr. Bruce Banner."

Klaxons sound in Bucky's head at the name. This is _the Hulk_ , the green behemoth that nearly killed them in Paris. _The enemy_ , he thinks, his earlier annoyance dwarfed by his instincts screaming at him to run. Once, it'd been all Bucky could do to stay ahead of the thing's pounding fists, the sweep of its massive arms. Natasha hadn't been so lucky, and Bucky remembers her gasp of pain as it swatted her into a lamp post. She'd been black and blue for a month.

Bucky nods mechanically at Dr. Banner, all his concentration bent on standing his ground and hiding his fear. Tony has positioned him so his bad arm is turned toward his opponent, the metal hanging like deadweight, uncovered beneath the short sleeve. Yesterday Tony'd seemed surprised to discover that the bionic arm was disabled; Bucky can only hope he hasn't already divulged that weakness to Banner.

 _\- "It's nice to meet you, Bucky," -_ the Hulk-in-human-guise says. _\- "Tony's talked a lot about you." -_

Bucky thinks he manages a faint smile.

"How are you feeling this morning, sweetheart? Did you get enough sleep?" Tony asks, still holding his hand, the contact distractingly unnerving like a mild electrical current.

"I'm fine," he says, avoiding both sets of eyes. 

"Did you get breakfast? What time is it?" 

_"The time is 10:18 a.m., sir."_

"Do you need anything? Is something wrong? What is it, love?" Tony brings his free hand up to brush against Bucky's cheek.

It's all he can do not to flinch, but Bucky forces himself to submit to the caress, unpleasantly reminded of a bug pinned in a frame. "I just wanted to see you," he says, making himself small and nonthreatening. "We finished the call with the lawyers, and Steve told me where you were." 

Something tightens in Tony's jaw, and Bucky's stomach flips. But Tony turns back to the screen, his expression contorting into a bright, brittle smile. "Neurosurgery! How much do you know about it? Hit me, Big Guy."

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that his dominant is planning surgery for him and his friends. 

When they were each captured, HYDRA had placed them in control collars with surgically implanted wires, the electric shocks meant to keep them from fighting back against their masters. Bucky and his friends had cut off the collars after their escape, but the now-inert wiring embedded in their cervical spines has been another matter. 

Yesterday Tony had touched him on the nape of his neck, had threaded his fingers between the short lengths of wire that protrude from his skin and promised to find an expert to remove them. Bucky'd felt cherished then, safe in his dominant's hands. 

But now with everything up in the air between them, he shivers at the idea of being helpless under a surgeon's knife, let alone the Hulk's. Would he even be anesthetized? Or merely held down and gagged? 

Acutely aware of the Hulk's gaze, he longs to cover his neck, where his overlong hair doesn't entirely cover the wires. His hand is still caught in Tony's, though, so he settles for turning slightly toward the camera to hide the vulnerable spot from Banner. The eyes on the screen follow the small movement, and Bucky goes still again. 

_\- "I'm current with the top journals, though my interest is purely theoretical," -_ Banner replies after giving Bucky a long look.

"Dr. Carolina Rubio. You know anything about her?"

_\- "Out of Hopkins, right?" -_

Their conversation flows past with no need for Bucky's input as he keeps his head down, Tony seeking Banner's opinion on a world-famous surgeon who has experience with—Bucky twitches at the doctor's casual use of the term—'rescued slaves.' 

Bucky would give anything to be invisible right now. Being on display is the last thing he wants, particularly before someone who's met him in the field, who saw first-hand the type of destruction he's capable of. The Hulk is no more blinded by the romanticism of an incomplete true-pair bond than Pepper Potts was this morning, and if he warns Tony away from Bucky—or from his friends—there's a chance Tony will listen. When the worry gets the better of him, Bucky risks another glance at his foe, trying to gauge how much he's hated.

Banner is watching him, head tilted in consideration. Bucky quickly blanks his expression, unsure what he's been revealing.

"I'm flying Dr. Rubio up for dinner tomorrow at Morimoto. I want you to come along as my second opinion. I'm not going to just trust him to a stranger."

Anger has always been a good antidote for fear. 

Bucky forces a grin and squeezes Tony's hand—though maybe not as gently as he should. "I'm gonna...." he says, finally pulling his hand away and nodding to the rest of the lab.

"No, sweetheart—"

"You guys talk, I'll be fine," Bucky reassures him with his widest, fakest smile. "I'll just poke around here, okay?"

"Bucky...."

 _\- "I'd be pleased to be there, Tony," -_ Banner says, distracting his dom. _\- "How much are you planning to tell her?" -_

Bucky retreats out of view while Tony forgets him in favor of his conversation. He allows himself a very brief moment with his hand over his face to hide a furious snarl before schooling his features back to the careful neutrality he'd learned under HYDRA. 

He's been angry all morning, but he's close to losing his grip on the rage now. 11 months of freedom, of not being subjected to dominants' whims, have apparently left him out of practice. He needs to be able to push the anger deep inside, to hold a blank face no matter what orders they throw around.

His dominants aren't constrained by SHIELD’s house arrest, he reminds himself; they weren’t the ones murdering innocents and collecting warrants like trading cards. Of course they'd want to get out, get away from the terrorists in their home. And why should they have to tell Bucky about their plans? He wonders whether Steve is going out with his husband tomorrow night, all too glad to escape the burden Bucky's put on him.

He kicks at a bundle of cables in his way.

It'd been difficult enough putting on a shy smile for his introduction to Ms. Potts, Steve's large hand hovering above his shoulder for so long his skin itched for the contact that never came. Even via videoconference he could tell she was a dominant, all poise and tightly reined power in a designer suit. Bucky'd stood before her and the team of well-dressed lawyers, shabby in his borrowed tee shirt and sweat pants, ashamed of his overlong hair and his lame arm while Steve loomed over him and spoke for him, explaining yet again that "we" had decided to delay the bonding and the planned press conference.

Ms. Potts had argued, and Bucky'd had to go somewhere loud inside his own head to not react to Steve's inevitable platitudes that this was for the best, was what they all wanted. He'd tuned back in to find her giving him an odd, narrow-eyed look, and he'd known then that she would never trust him, even as Steve stared her down and called Bucky _blameless_.

The lawyers had nodded so seriously and agreed, and his dom had carried on the entire conversation on behalf of them all, Bucky and his friends only silent spectators as it was decided what clothes the Three would wear during questioning, the lines of inquiry they should decline to answer, and the keywords they should stress throughout their testimony to spin the story the right way:

 _powerless_  
_helpless_  
_submissive_

When the call had finally ended, Bucky had stepped from his dominant's side, saying he was going to find Tony. The words had slipped out harsh and abrupt as he cut off Steve's too-solicitous inquiries. Steve had smiled at that, and Bucky'd been sorely tempted to punch him, to split his knuckles against those perfect teeth. He'd flexed his hand but made no further move, reminding himself that he'd held his temper all through the indignity of the conference call, and he couldn't afford to destroy that good work.

Steve had seemed to hesitate then, and Bucky'd feared that his dom had picked up on his dangerous thoughts. But whatever Steve was about to say, he'd stopped himself and simply directed Bucky to his husband's lab. As he made his escape, Bucky'd been humiliatingly grateful for the lack of censure.

He shakes his head now and checks back in on Tony's conversation. Banner is suggesting that Tony bring X-rays and other scans to their dinner consultation.

"Medical floor's off limits," Tony says, voice heavy with resentment. "Fury's orders."

_\- "I have no idea how you're tolerating that man in your home." -_

"You don't know the half of it, Smooth Jazz. Fury's going to drag them through so-called 'interviews' starting tomorrow. They're not even allowed counsel because he claims this isn't official yet."

_\- "Well, you know my feelings on Fury's tribunals. They'll be found whatever's most convenient for SHIELD. You have to know you can't trust him, Tony. He's calculating." -_

"Fury's Fury," he replies with a tired wave. "I can't even pretend to be surprised. It's just...I need to _fix_ things. And he's getting in the way."

 _\- "You're doing everything you can," -_ Banner assures him. _\- "Knowing you, you're doing far more than you should. You're only human." -_

Tony shrugs the comment aside. "I'm playing catch up. I'm light years behind where I need to be."

_\- "How can I help?" -_

Bucky wanders deeper into the lab in an attempt to block out the rest of the conversation. He's sick of hearing his dominants discuss him as though he doesn't have an opinion, doesn't get a say in what they decide for him.

Even HYDRA's soldiers had a healthy respect for what Bucky was capable of. Plenty of them learned the hard way that Bucky and his friends didn't have to submit to them like they did to the officers. Teaching them proper respect had been one of the few things that made his time there bearable. 

Do the Starks think he's powerless because he's a submissive? That he's their property now that he's in their territory? He's the opposite of helpless; hadn't his dominants seen firsthand what he can do? He remembers with crystal clarity Captain America's look of shock when Bucky'd deflected his shield below the helicopter, the negligible twinge of recoil in his sprained wrist as he'd sent the Avenger ducking behind his shield. How Iron Man had gone down hard with Bucky's weight on his chest, snarling and cursing but powerless to defend himself when Bucky—

With a gasp he realizes he's standing in front of the Iron Man armor, hand pressed flat against the clear case. He yanks himself away with a sob, dizzy with horror.

How dare he boast what he's capable of? All he's ever been good for is death and betrayal.

"Sweetheart?"

He jumps, an awful croaking sound tearing from his throat when he turns to find Tony standing right behind him.

"What is it, love?”

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You shouldn't—" Bucky babbles, retreating until his back is against the case, and Tony abruptly ceases his advance.

"Don't ever be sorry. Please, just tell me how I can help."

Bucky knows that the armor behind him is one hundred percent intact, no sign of the sizzling gouges left by Clint's arrows, no sinister slickness on the cherry-red finish or sparking wires in the gaping shoulder where—. His shaking hand darts out to brush nervously at Tony's tee shirt, just a few inches above his heart.

"Oh, dearest," Tony says with a sorrowful expression. "You were protecting your friend. Of course you had to defend her. I didn't know, please, please believe me, I didn't know. I'd never have hurt Natalia if I'd known she was collared."

"I shot you," he gasps.

"No, don't be upset, please. It's in the past. I'm fine now—totally okay. Here, feel," Tony catches his hand and presses the palm flush against his chest, where Bucky's bullet had torn clear through him.

Bucky closes his eyes, tries to concentrate on the warm, solid flesh, on the beat of his dom's great heart. It's hard to hear anything over the thunder of the Black Hawk's propellers, but eventually he finds the rhythm, lets it fill his awareness. The bond is a deep thrum in time with Tony's heartbeat, its siren song calling to him, promising everything will be fine if he just completes the bond.

"Shh, shh, love, it's alright now. See, I'm just fine." Then there's a hand touching Bucky's face, and he snaps his eyes open, tries to tear himself away again.

The display case has him trapped, and Tony doesn't relinquish his grip on Bucky's hand, but he does lean fractionally away, withdrawing his right hand from Bucky's face.

Bucky stares at him, frozen between fleeing and begging for the contact to resume.

"I didn't mean to startle you. I'm sorry. Here. Here, can I just...?" And Tony's hand comes up again, achingly slowly, as Bucky watches. "You tell me if I need to stop, okay?"

Bucky bites his lip at the rasp of scabbed knuckles on his cheek, the line of warmth seeping into his skin. Tony's watching him so intently that Bucky can actually feel his defenses giving way. He clenches his jaw, determined not to show how thoroughly the attention, the longing is taking him to pieces.

"Sorry," Tony repeats, and starts to pull away again.

It's instinctive when Bucky digs his fingers into Tony's chest. "Don't go."

"Okay," Tony says immediately, and his smile is so relieved, so utterly real, that Bucky has to look away. He watches as Tony’s fingers return to stroke his hair back from his temple.

"I shot you," he finds himself repeating, still fighting this heartrending forgiveness. "I shot you."

"I shot Natalia first. You were just looking after yours. ...I should probably apologize to her, huh? Unless you think she's already forgotten?"

Bucky's surprised enough by the mood change to huff in confusion, and he's relieved to see Tony's naked expression turn reassuringly wry.

"You're probably right. I've already used up my luck for this lifetime. I'd better make it up to her before she comes after me. Do you think she'd like an island? How big? Round to the nearest hundred palm trees."

Bucky chuckles at that. "We never talked about the tropics. I think she'd prefer the Mediterranean. Maybe Croatia?"

"Mmm, I'll get a realtor on it immediately." Tony's smile fades into concern, and his palm presses more firmly against the side of Bucky's face. "Are you alright now, sweetheart?"

Bucky turns his face into the touch and breathes in Tony's skin. His hand smells unpleasantly of rubber, and Bucky pulls away, wrinkling his nose. "What have you been _doing?_ "

"Making room," Tony answers, finally backing away to gesture toward the cables snaking across the whole floor. "It's time to turn this place back into a machine shop. How am I supposed to build anything with all this crap in the way?"

Bucky watches him walk away, Tony’s back painfully vulnerable under a faded tee shirt. In his empty hand, Bucky can feel the weight of the anti-tank gun he'd hauled into position and turned on Iron Man, no time for hesitation. His throat hurts from his wordless scream, from the bitter stench of cordite that blows back at him with the recoil.

He clears his throat. "Do you build your armor here?"

"That's right."

"Can you reinforce it? I don't want anyone else to...." He can't quite bring himself to say _shoot you in the back_. 

"Already done. Full coverage of the torso—to protect _all_ the vital organs, if you know what I'm saying."

Bucky ignores the innuendo, already turning back to the armor. Its lights are dimmed at the moment, but he can still see the glow of the eye slits, one obscured by his pistol pressed against the socket—

Tony's gripping him, fingers wrapped around his upper arms, and Bucky belatedly realizes he's panting, hand touching the glass directly in front of the helmet.

"Hey, hey. You didn't do it. You didn't do it, Bucky. It didn't happen. Steve stopped us both."

Bucky hears him, but only faintly, as though from a great distance. He's caught up in the treacherous skip of the muzzle across the faceplate, the copper reek of blood, and his own breath sour with adrenaline and rage, the absolute resolve that his adversary wouldn't ever get the chance to underestimate him again—

Tony spins him around and shakes him. "It didn't happen, Buck. C'mon, look at me." He pulls Bucky's hand up to press against his cheek.

Bucky's fingers fan out to obscure Tony's left eye, the roaring in his ears becoming unbearable, a cacophony of what ifs and recriminations. Then suddenly he's pulled into an embrace, Tony's arms tight around him, the scent of his warm skin already so familiar after yesterday on the jet. Bucky shudders hard as the memory finally drops away.

"Don't go away on me again," Tony's saying. "C'mon, stay with me, tiger. That's it, stay right here. Deep breaths."

"I meant to do it. I meant to kill you," Bucky whispers. It's the last thing he should be admitting, but Tony needs to know he's not safe with him.

"You wouldn't have hurt me even if you'd taken the shot. The mask is stronger than it looks."

"Armor piercing rounds—"

"Might've scratched the paint and given me a hell of a headache, but wouldn't have penetrated, not even at point blank."

Bucky pulls away a little, and Tony lets him. "I would have kept trying. I'd have torn the mask off—" He looks down at the bionic arm, glad that it's no longer a threat.

"I'd have blasted your brains out before you even touched it," Tony says regretfully, his right hand hovering beside Bucky's ear to demonstrate. "We're both fighters, Bucky. I know what it's like to fight for your life. I don't blame either of us for what we almost did to each other. " 

_I do_ , Bucky doesn't say, choosing instead to bite his tongue and avoid Tony's eyes.

"Can I hug you again, sweetheart? I think we both could use it. But only if you want it."

Bucky nods, still not trusting himself with words.

Tony's embrace is looser this time but still comfortable, and Bucky closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation of being held by his dominant, letting the rise and fall of Tony's breathing dispel his lingering fears. The smell of sweat and skin—even the nose-wrinkling trace of rubber—is soothing. The hum of the bond in their contact is comforting now that he's calmer. He wraps his own arm around Tony, and his dom sighs happily. Bucky keeps his hand resting on Tony's spine, refusing to slide it upward to feel his shoulder where he'd shot him.

Tony starts up a steady stream of reassurances, and Bucky closes his eyes and enjoys the soothing nonsense and the small stroking motions of his calloused hands. After a few minutes Bucky realizes that he's letting himself be touched, be _held_ , and _it's okay_. He's not freaking out. And he thinks that even if he did panic, Tony would let him go and still find a way to calm him back down. The crash of relief makes him weak in the knees. He can do this; he can be physically intimate with his dominant. He hasn't even needed to manipulate Tony into this, though he'd vaguely intended something of the kind when he sought him out today. It's shockingly easy with Tony.

He can hardly believe he'd been so resentful a few minutes ago. His dom had been kind and attentive when Bucky interrupted his conversation; Bucky was the one acting cold and withdrawn. Of course Tony just wants what's best for Bucky and his friends. He was wrong to mistrust him, Bucky concludes. Tony deserves his trust, not baseless suspicion.

"How are you doing now, love?"

Bucky allows himself a moment to squeeze tightly and press his chin down on Tony's shoulder before taking a deep breath and making himself step back. 

"I'm good, Tony." The sincere smile comes easily. "Thanks. I'm sorry about," he waves his hand around the lab, "all that."

"That was nothing," he says, and Bucky braces himself for an anecdote, but Tony kindly doesn't try to one-up Bucky with a story of his own. "The lab's a great place for freakouts. Lots of stuff to throw."

Bucky looks at Tony consideringly, remembering his snappish anger as he hauled cables around. "Or drag?" he asks, pointedly kicking a bundle near their feet.

Tony beams. "Busted. It helps to feel like I'm accomplishing something at the same time, though. Catharsis and productivity combined for maximum efficiency."

"So you really do need these cables moved?" Bucky looks around for a length he could manage with one arm.

"Yep. I'm taking down the monitors, too. You feeling like pitching in?" 

"Maybe I just want an excuse to hang around and watch you from behind," Bucky teases, surprising himself.

"Audiences are always welcome! Anything I can do to improve the view? I can lose the shirt, if you like."

Tony's exaggerated leer leaves Bucky unsure if his offer is serious, so he shakes his head. "Save a little mystery for later." 

His dom's pout makes Bucky laugh. "Fine. But fair warning: I'll be wearing my tightest clothes down here starting tomorrow."

They both pause for a moment at the reminder of where Bucky will be tomorrow: in a makeshift interrogation room on SHIELD’s co-opted floor. Tony recovers first and ushers him back to the area where he'd been working when Bucky found him. Several loops of cable are wound around the base of what Bucky now sees is a robot.

"Bucky, this is DUM-E. DUM-E, this is Bucky."

Bucky awkwardly extends his hand to the metal limb, which closes a set of short pincers on his fingers and moves up and down in a surprisingly good imitation of a handshake. 

Tony taps the end of the robotic arm as though patting a dog on the head and tells it, "Over to the corner with that. Slowly, okay?" DUM-E rolls away, dragging the cords with it. "Watch him, would you? He keeps running into the cables and getting stuck."

Tony bends to tug another coil across the floor, and Bucky enjoys the view for a few seconds before chasing after the robot, which, as Tony promised, is already stopped less than halfway across the lab.

He tugs a length of heavy cord from in front of DUM-E's wheels, and the bot whirs and chirps happily. Bucky’s satisfaction is short-lived, though, as the ridiculous machine heads directly for another obstacle. 

"Oh, c'mon, you big...dummy. What the hell?"

Behind him, Tony's laugh is loud and fond, and warmth lingers in Bucky's chest as he hops after the robot once more.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves in sheep's clothing

"That feint hasn't worked on me in years," Clint taunts. "Try something new already."

Bucky doesn't shift his gaze from the weight in his hand, focusing on the uncomplicated motion as he curls his arm up and down. But the prickly sensation finally fades from the back of his neck, and he knows that Steve's attention is now on Natasha and Clint at the other end of the gym.

There's the sound of a scuffle followed by a meaty thud. He doesn't have to look to know that Natasha's put Clint on the floor. Instead, he glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye.

Steve, who's stayed within 15 feet of Bucky all afternoon, working with his own equipment but always, always nearby. Steve, who's been working the speed bag for the last 10 minutes, his shirt distractingly sweat-soaked. Steve is now standing motionless. Staring in their direction.

They need to stop. Bucky should stop them. They might listen if he explains.

"You're getting slow, _solnyshko_. Too much pizza has made you soft. On your feet and show me what you can really do, or you won't like what happens."

"Knives this time?" Clint proposes, and there's the unmistakable sound of metal being drawn from a sheath.

Steve's eyes widen.

Bucky drops the dumbbell. It bounces on the anti-slip mat and clangs loudly against the foot of the bench he's sitting on.

"Are you okay, Buck?" his dom asks, coming quickly to his side.

"Just tired," he grimaces, resting with his elbow on his knee. It's even the truth; he hasn't had the equipment or the opportunity to push his body like this for a year. 

Steve had taken one look at the three of them after lunch and declared that they needed to burn off their restless energy. The private gym takes up an entire floor of the Tower and features every piece of workout equipment imaginable. Bucky's spent the last couple of hours stretching and working out most major muscle groups, and he's thoroughly fatigued.

"You should take it easy; you're still getting your strength back." Steve's hands dart toward Bucky but are quickly snatched back to his sides. "Maybe you should rest."

Bucky doesn't think about those hands. Instead he makes a show of flexing his arm and stands. "If I don't move now, I'll cramp up. Just need a quick jog."

Steve's critical gaze relaxes into a smile. "Do you mind some com—" He's cut off by a shout and another thump, even louder than before. Steve’s head whips around, and his shoulders tense.

_Shit._

"Actually, could you help me with my sling?" Bucky blurts, gesturing unnecessarily to the makeshift sling Natasha had fashioned so he could safely use the machines. "It's come a little loose, and I need it tighter for running."

"Of—of course," Steve says, but now his voice is tight with unease. He approaches, coming around behind, and Bucky closes his eyes and braces himself to accept the contact.

Steve's closer than he was this morning, so near that Bucky can feel the heat pouring off his flushed skin. Closer than he has been since he'd held Bucky on his lap and taken care of him on the jet.

Bucky's body runs simultaneously hot and cold. He cuts the shiver short, firmly reminding himself that Tony'd held him this morning. He can do this.

But instead of the weight of his dominant's hand, he feels a gentle tugging at his shoulder. He looks between his lashes and sees that Steve is gingerly picking at the knot, taking obvious pains not to touch him, not even through his shirt.

The sounds of the others fade from his consciousness as he becomes aware of every inch of his skin, how it's suddenly tingling and aching. It would be so easy to lean into Steve's competent hands.

The sling pulls tighter, squeezing his arm higher against his chest, and it's like an embrace. Bucky shudders, and his fatigued muscles go heavy and lax, something warm unspooling beyond the bounds of his body.

"Steve..." he whispers, at a loss but needing to know his dominant is with him.

But Steve clears his throat and steps away. "There, that should do it."

Bucky turns his face away from the abrupt rejection and tries to recompose himself.

"Thank you for letting me help," Steve says, his voice astonishingly sincere. "It means a lot just to be able to make something better for you."

Bucky blinks at him, startled and confused. If Steve wants to help him, why won't he bond with him—or even touch him?

"So...jogging?"

"Yeah, okay," Bucky manages, and falls into step with his dominant, pushing the wounded thoughts aside. 

The running track loops around the whole floor and inevitably brings them past the mat where his friends are still sparring, metal flashing dangerously in their hands. Natasha pulls off a complicated twist and side tackle that brings Clint to the floor in a crash just as they're pulling even. 

Despite his chagrin, Bucky inwardly vows to ask her to slow that down for him someday.

"Uncle! Augh, enough already! Bucky, get over here and save me," Clint groans, but he's grinning as Natasha helps him back to his feet.

Bucky jogs in place and declines with a shake of his head. "Not today."

"You've been getting rusty, Barnes. Your form yesterday was execrable. Let's see if I can't remind you how it's done."

Bucky gives a small jerk of his head and slides his eyes in Steve's direction, but she doesn't react, still holding a knife out to him expectantly.

He can feel that ticklish sensation at the nape of his neck again.

"I'm good, Tash," he says. "Sticking to cardio. I don't need a black eye tomorrow," he adds with a nod at Clint, who took a nasty elbow to the face in that tackle. Bucky knows from experience how much damage her bony elbows can do.

Clint shrugs, unconcerned. "I got no reason to look pretty for SHIELD."

Bucky doesn't contradict him, settles instead for rolling his eyes in exasperation. When he resumes his path, his dom seamlessly falls in beside him.

"They're really something," Steve marvels after a quiet minute.

He winces and tries for a flippant tone. "Surprising what they teach in Scouts these days, huh?"

Steve chuckles. "Her technique is amazing. I've never had any training in that sort of fighting—always been the sort to throw a straightforward punch. I wonder if I could learn some of those moves."

Bucky stops in his tracks.

Steve halts immediately, turning to face him.

"Don't—" Bucky starts, and cuts himself off with a grimace. Steve takes a step toward him, so Bucky forces himself to continue, "Don't ask her for that. Don't ask any of us to perform like that, on command." 

Unable to meet Steve's eyes, he instead watches his dom's hands open and close; this time they don't reach out. Bucky swallows his disappointment.

"I wouldn't. Christ, of course, I won't ever."

Bucky nods and ignores the twinge of guilt. If the choked horror in his dominant's voice is any indication, Steve will avoid the topic like the plague now. It's for the best.

Not least because Natasha would have pounced on a chance to throw Captain America to the mat.

\---

Nearly an hour later, the AI alerts them that their new clothes have arrived, and Steve hustles them out of the gym. He grabs an ice pack from a mini-freezer Bucky hadn't noticed beside the elevator, and hands it to Clint as they board. Clint blinks at him in astonishment, and Steve beams when Clint raises it to the swelling around his eye. Steve smiles at all of them, in fact, and says they look more relaxed now.

Bucky doesn't voice a complaint that he's badly out of condition, exhausted from hours of cardio and weights. There's no sense letting Steve know he's usually capable of more.

They find bags and boxes of new clothes in their bedrooms, and by unspoken agreement Bucky and Clint bring their hauls to Natasha's room after showering, spreading them over the bed.

Although Jarvis has assured them that SHIELD hasn't embedded any surveillance devices in the clothing, none of them say a word for the next half hour as they examine every seam, button, and lining of the garments. Bucky knows he'd promised himself to start trusting Tony—and he _does_ trust his doms to protect him from SHIELD, if just for now—but as he and his friends conduct their inspection, he reminds himself that he'd be naive not to suspect the Starks of hiding their own trackers. For his friends' sake, if not his own, he'll remain a little bit wary.

When they've examined the last garments and found nothing, they smile at each other in relief for a short moment, and then excitedly grab clothes to try on. 

Their court clothes, as Bucky has privately dubbed them, are mostly dress shirts and slacks, with an assortment of ties and jackets. There are casual clothes as well: jeans in various washes, tee shirts in an assortment of colors, and zippered hoodies; the kinds of clothes they might have chosen for themselves had they spent their recent history differently. And every single article of clothing sports a designer label. Bucky's conscience rebels at the cost, but Natasha is now openly purring over the lingerie and other silky items that had been included in her bags. 

While navigating the buttons of a dress shirt one-handed, Bucky finally tells the others what he's learned about the plan for surgeries. The thought of being helpless under a stranger's knife leaves them all briefly subdued, but eventually Clint bravely says, "Good." And Natasha adds, "It needs to be done."

His throat goes tight at their willingness to be vulnerable. The need to protect them is an unbearable pressure.

"Holy shit! Get a load of me, you guys!" Clint calls, interrupting Bucky's brooding. He's standing before the full-length mirror, openly preening in designer jeans, a green tee shirt, and a black blazer. He looks... _normal_. Like an honest to goodness normal person, not an abused submissive, not a deadly slave, not even like a hunted fugitive. The hollows of his cheeks and the fresh swelling below his left eye belie the image somewhat, but another few weeks of good food and rest will erase those signs. Clint will be able to blend in on any city sidewalk, to disappear into the crowd and pass unobserved.

Bucky steps closer to the mirror, briefly spotting his own reflection behind Clint, and realizes that all three of them could pass for normal in these clothes. It's an alarming thought, and he hastens out of range of the mirror. They _shouldn't_ look normal. After the things they've done, there ought to be a warning stamped on their brows, something to announce their deadly natures to the unsuspecting innocents around them. Like this, they're wolves in sheep's clothing.

But this is the role Steve and his lawyers want them to play for SHIELD.

With her infallible sixth sense for Bucky's inner turmoil, Natasha chooses that moment to pull him aside and say quietly, "I know what you were up to downstairs."

For a brief, guilty moment, Bucky thinks she knows about his aborted attempt to manipulate Tony. He'd been careful to leave that—and the unexpected flood of violent memories that left him clinging for comfort—out of the retelling.

"I don't like to see you holding back in front of your dominant," she continues with burning eyes, and Bucky realizes she's talking about the gym.

"That's not what I was doing, Tash."

She ignores his denial. "Tomorrow they're going to hear all about what we can do." 

"They may hear about it, but they don't want to _see_ it. Look at these costumes they sent us," Bucky says, tugging at the collar of his own shirt, then nodding over to where Clint is still twisting in front of the mirror. "They want harmless subs."

She steps back and crosses her arms, studying him. Her blouse is creamy silk and pearl buttons, perfectly complimenting her pale complexion. With her hair fixed and a little bit of makeup, she could walk right into any boardroom in Manhattan—and slit a throat with the switchblade strapped to her ankle.

He looks away when the silence stretches. "I just don't want them to change their minds about us."

"If I thought they'd recoil from what we've done, I wouldn't have brought you and Clint here."

Bucky doesn't point out how little choice the bond gave them all. Instead he says, "I shouldn't have let you come along."

"Bullshit," Clint says, and Bucky turns to find his friend behind him. "It was our choice to be here. And they knew what we were when they extended the invitation."

Bucky grimaces. How does he explain the precariousness of the tightrope they all need to walk? His dominants want them to have been helpless. He takes another look at the incipient bruise on Clint's face, the sharp line of his jaw, and gives up the argument. His friends won't understand.

Natasha grabs a tie off the pile of accessories and hands it to Clint before heading to the dresser.

Bucky waits patiently while Clint fastens the tie around his neck for him, but he balks when Natasha returns with a sheath on a strap. "No, Tasha, what—?" he starts, but Clint holds him in place.

She ignores him, ducking in close to pull up his shirt and fasten the strap around his ribs, muttering to herself as she adjusts the length to grip his torso firmly and manipulates the sheath until it rests at the small of his back.

"I don't want it, Natasha. Stop."

When she straightens, she's holding a knife. 

"My KA-BAR?" he blurts. He'd thought it lost. She must have retrieved it while trying to wake Steve.

"You used this to save your dominant's life," she says, tilting the clean blade to catch the light. "And while you showed terrible technique, losing your grip on it, you didn't hesitate when it came time to get the job done. This is a reminder of who you are." She steps behind him and raises the tail of his shirt to slide the KA-BAR into the sheath.

The familiar weight is comforting, and Bucky gasps in unexpected relief. He'd thought he was at ease without a weapon for the past day, but the sudden absence of tension is undeniable. 

"You're capable of great violence. But now you have a say in when to deploy it. You saved your dominant; there's no shame in that." 

There's a pressure behind his eyes, and he blinks quickly while she and Clint get his clothes straightened, tucking the shirt into his slacks and sliding his arms into the matching jacket. Clint parts his hair for him and tucks it behind his ears. Bucky follows silently when they pull him to the mirror. He looks everywhere but at his own face.

"Jogging instead of fighting isn't going to fool anyone, least of all Captain America. And I will not stand idly by and watch you pretend to be less than you are, than what you've always been. A protector." Natasha presses lightly on the sheath, and Bucky's spine stiffens automatically, muscles adjusting to put him in a ready stance.

And there he is; Bucky can see it now. Inside the immaculate suit, there's the man who shattered lives, who laughed and waved as he fired a pistol at Captain America, who stabbed Steve's captor in the back. Natasha's right, but not in the way she means. It's folly to try to deny what he is. He's dangerous to the core. Mere clothing won't make him what Steve prefers.

"What was Dr. Banner like?"

"What?" he says distractedly.

"You said you met him today. What was he like?"

"Uh, average height. Early forties. Dark hair—"

"I've seen photos. What was he _like_?"

Bucky tries to get his thoughts in order. "I couldn't get a bead on him; I think he's a neutral. And he was...collected. Wary. Dangerous."

Natasha nods. "Was Mr. Stark afraid of him?" 

He wrinkles his nose at her. "What the hell are you getting at?"

"I've heard Banner and Stark are great friends. Did that seem true?" When Bucky nods, she continues, "Do you think your doms forget that the Hulk is in there?"

He won't dignify her ridiculous question with an answer.

"As I understand it, Banner can turn into the Hulk at any moment. Yet he has friends, trusted allies who know him and don't fear what he's capable of." 

"He's one of the good guys."

"Your own military wanted him on several charges, isn't that right?"

"Goddammit, Natasha," he breathes, seeing the parallel she's drawing. He wants to believe that she's right, that Steve could ever accept the dark parts of him, including his terrifying facility with violence. 

He'd repeatedly told himself that very lie this past year, rationalizing that his old dom, Sergeant Major Dugan, had never feared him. But Bucky hadn't had anything to hide from Dugan; their relationship had been one of uncomplicated camaraderie.

And Dum Dum had never had to _order_ him not to murder his husband. 

"You're not meant for long cons, _lapushka_ ," she says firmly, and he averts his eyes. "There's no sense hiding yourself from them."

Bucky nods in silent agreement. He can't hide this from his dominants. Not for long, at least. Especially with what's coming tomorrow.

\---

Bucky changes out of the suit for dinner. He hesitates but ultimately leaves the knife and sheath in his dresser. Natasha's lesson will stay with him without the reminder, and it still feels wrong to carry a weapon around his dominants.

He's distracted throughout the meal, knowing that his friends are wearing knives beneath their casual clothes—not because they expect an attack from the Starks but to maintain some sense of control over their lives. He barely pays attention to the conversation around him, and Clint and Natasha keep up some banter with Tony that distracts from his silence. 

But when they eventually leave the table, and Steve carries the dishes to the sink to wash, Tony's patient voice finally pulls Bucky from his dark thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"I said you've been quiet tonight, honey. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," Bucky says. And he is fine—physically.

"You had a bad shock this morning. You haven't had any more, uh, flashes?" Tony's brow is furrowed adorably, and he slides his hands over to wrap around Bucky's. The contact sends a jolt across his skin, finally bringing his dominant into focus.

Bucky takes a good look at Tony's face and startles. He's spent so long today wrapped up in violent thoughts, and here before him is another victim of his attempted brutality.

Tony's smile falls, but he doesn't try to stop Bucky from pulling away. "It's okay. I know it can be hard, but we're going to work through this with you. Take all the time you need."

It sounds like something a psychiatrist would say. Bucky rolls his eyes before he thinks better of the disrespectful gesture.

Tony smiles ruefully. "Yeah, yeah. I sound like a cliché. Sue me."

"No, it's okay, I—"

"You don't have to be nice, sweetheart. I know how obnoxious the psych lingo can be; I've been through this wringer myself."

Bucky pauses and studies his dom, surprised by the insinuation that Tony's ever needed counselling. He dares a glance at Steve's back and sees that his other dominant has gone stiff—doubtless at the reminder that his husband has suffered some previous trauma. Bucky resolves to ask Tony about it some other time, when it won't upset Steve.

"I'm really okay, though. I'm right here. I'm just a little nervous about tomorrow."

Tony's expression grows stormy. "Fury's 'interview.'" Distaste for the euphemism practically drips from his words.

Steve sets a dish in the drain board with an especially loud clatter.

The silence that follows is unbearably tense, and for a moment Bucky can see the immediate future, nights of grim silence between them until his dominants finally hand their house guests over to SHIELD custody.

He jumps to his feet with a ridiculous, desperate idea. "What if I refuse to talk to them?" 

Tony's jaw is set, but he shakes his head sadly. "This is part of the deal. SHIELD would take you away if—"

"What if I’d rather go to jail than tell anybody what it was like? It’s not like I haven’t got it coming."

"Unacceptable," Steve says curtly, half-turned toward them. "You don't deserve prison, Bucky. We won't let that happen." After a moment he adds, "And you wouldn't expect your friends to make that same sacrifice."

Bucky cringes at the gentle rebuke.

"I’m so sorry it has to be like this," Tony says. "I want to hide you away and keep you for just the two of us for always. But we can’t." 

"You didn’t deserve what was done to you; you need to be free. And this is the best way to secure your freedom." Steve still won't face him fully, keeping his hands in the sink as though dirty dishes are more important than his sub's distress. The tacit rejection makes his words ring hollow.

The air around Bucky is suddenly thick and impossible to breathe, and he stumbles back from the table.

Tony makes an unhappy noise and moves to intercept him, and Bucky's tempted to let himself be caught. He'd felt safe and accepted in his dominant's embrace this morning, and he'd kill to have that reassurance again. 

"Tony," Steve says sharply, and they both freeze.

Bucky knows it was a warning. Somehow Steve already knows he doesn't deserve Tony's affection, that he's a bitter, ruthless man. He'll have to confess his crimes tomorrow, and what little acceptance he's found here will dry up once his dominants learn what he's really capable of.

"We're going to be right there, dearest," Tony soothes from a safe distance. "We may not be in the room, but we'll be with you every moment." 

Bucky stiffens in horror and instinctively presses his hand to his back, where the knife should be. He wouldn't pull it. He wouldn't pull it, but he needs it, and it's not there. "You'll be watching?"

"Fury's agreed to let us monitor. But we'll be behind glass; you won't be allowed to see us," Steve says quietly.

Bucky imagines his doms on the other side of a mirror, watching his confession. Maybe it'll be better that way, he thinks, halfway to hysterical. To spill his ugly truths directly to them without having to look at their disappointed faces. 

Whatever's left of Bucky's soul shrivels up in anguish. The things he'll be asked tomorrow.... If he were a braver man, he'd step into Tony's arms right now and steal the intimacy that will surely be denied him once they witness his confession. But Steve's cemented the distance between them. 

If only he had more time. If only nothing had to change and they never had to find out because he never had to speak those words.

Trembling with dread, he stammers, "You're—you're going to hate what you hear," compelled to give them some kind of warning, to try to apologize even a little bit for how his words will hurt them tomorrow. 

"I can control myself," Steve assures him in a careful voice. "I'm sorry I've lost my temper before. I promise you, I won't interfere. "

He can hardly make sense of Steve's words until he realizes that his dominant has misinterpreted his fears. What a disaster that would be—Steve crashing through the two-way glass to stop the questioning, maybe even lashing out at Bucky if his words angered him enough.

Perhaps then Steve would finally touch him, if only to wrap his clenching hands around Bucky's throat. Perhaps it'd be worth it.

"It'll be okay, I promise," Tony adds, leaning forward but not stepping closer. "Neither of us is going to overreact. I can't promise I won't sic a mercenary or four on some HYDRA goons after, or maybe have Mentallo's remains dug up so I can piss on them, but we'll control ourselves. We understand everything needs to go smoothly with SHIELD."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Bucky croaks. After all, they're superheroes; they'll maintain a public facade but distance themselves from him in private. He bites his tongue against the sniveling need to beg, to explain that there are things he doesn't ever want them to hear, and _please, please don't watch tomorrow_. "I know I have to— _we_ have to do this. I'm sure everything will be fine."

Tony's smile is weak and unconvincing, and Steve hasn't moved a muscle in minutes.

Bucky draws a shaky breath. "Goodnight," he whispers, and he hopes it doesn't sound too much like _goodbye_.

"Goodnight," Tony calls after him, "Sleep well."

He's nearing his room when he hears a sharp crack of ceramic behind him. He's thinking about heading back to check what's wrong when he hears Tony.

"Christ, babe, what did you—? Your hand!" 

"It's fine," Steve growls, and Bucky's only ever heard him use that dangerous tone once before. He can still hear that same voice threatening to rip a man apart with his bare hands. He shudders and retreats quickly to his bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning for this chapter, which features a non-graphic description of a terrorist attack, the details of which some readers may find triggering. Please **check the chapter end notes first** if you have violence triggers. 
> 
> Special thanks to my betas, samanthahirr and windsweptfic, who pulled on the reins and got the end of this chapter pointed in the right direction.

"State your full name and rank for the record."

"Clint Barton."

The agent raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Rank?"

Clint sets his jaw and leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. The unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt is sticking out over the gray hoodie, and the bruising below his eye gives him a sullen look.

"Specialist Barton, these aren't questions you can decline to answer."

"They fucking abandoned me. I have no rank," Clint spits, and Bucky's pride swells harsh and sudden, like a kick to bruised ribs.

Agent Pandit ignores Clint's outburst. "Specialist Clinton Francis Barton, United States Army," he intones, obviously for the sake of the recording. Clint glares. "And you, Miss?"

"Natasha Romanoff."

The man looks down at the folder in front of him and taps his finger three times. "Birth name Natalia Romanova—"

"They lost the right to name me when they underestimated me. My name is Natasha Romanoff." 

" _Agentka_ —" 

" _Krasnaya Komnata_ 's assets didn't have ranks," she says firmly. To an unpracticed observer, her body language would seem perfectly calm.

" _Agentka_ Natalia Romanova, _Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti_. And you?"

He should say _James Barnes, Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, 32557038_ , because they need things to go as smoothly as possible here, and because he's proud of his service, proud of the years he put into his career and the good he once did. 

It's on the tip of his tongue: name, rank, and serial number—the least effective words in the English language—but he finds himself glowering. Who is this man to judge them? To deny Clint's independence or Natasha's right to finally be her own person? 

"Bucky Barnes," he says with a show of teeth. "Pleased to fucking meet you." 

\---

Steve clears his throat in the minutes before they're due downstairs. "Before we head down...." He trails off momentarily, gaze fixed out the wall of windows of the main room. When he continues, his words are directed to the room at large, tone apologetic. "Weapons won't be tolerated on SHIELD's floor."

In the ensuing silence, Bucky braces himself for a confrontation.

Clint surprises him by stooping with a loud sigh, tugging up one leg of his jeans to remove the holster from his ankle. Natasha removes three knives and a pistol from various places on her person, and Bucky's pleased to note that his doms aren't watching her.

His friends stack their weapons on the kitchen counter in a pile of kevlar straps and silk cords and then set their clothes to rights.

 _"Sirs, they are ready for you downstairs,"_ Jarvis reports. The elevator doors slide open with a quiet chime.

He swallows against another wave of panic. There's no point in begging now; he already tried last night.

"Well, we're not getting any younger," Tony says with hollow joviality. No one responds.

The tension of this ride is different than when they'd first arrived at the Tower. Clint and Natasha tug Bucky back between them, their heads high in feigned confidence, and the Starks turn their backs entirely, standing shoulder to shoulder at the doors.

The elevator opens on a hallway bristling with armed guards. Bucky and his friends follow as Steve and Tony lead the way between six men in dark blue uniforms—several of whom practically reek of overactive dominance. 

"I really love what you've done with the place. Nothing says fine craftsmanship like 24 hours and a government budget," Tony quips, taking in the bare, white walls. Reaching the metal detector blocking their path, he laughs sharply. "Did you miss the part where they have metal _implanted in their bodies?_ Not to mention the prosthesis. You want a light show, put up a disco ball."

"We can't allow them to proceed if they're armed," one of the guards says.

"They're unarmed," Steve replies coolly.

"They'll have to submit to pat-downs."

Bucky shoots his friends a worried look, but Steve just crosses his arms. "No one's touching them."

"Captain—"

"Pick up a phone and call your boss if you have to, but nobody touches them. Is that understood?" Tony snaps, stepping into the man's space.

The guard hesitates, clearly torn. "If you give your word that they pose no threat...."

"They won't hurt a fly." Tony's voice is dripping with sarcasm.

Clint stifles a cough, and the agent glances at them dubiously.

Steve says, "I give my word; they won't be a problem."

Bucky forces a smile.

\---

The man in the interview room is already seated when they enter, his back to a long mirror. From his thick, black hair in an institutional haircut to his broad shoulders camouflaged by an unremarkable suit and tie, everything about him demands to be mistaken for average. 

Clint frowns and studies the man with evident perplexity. Bucky's not getting a dominant or submissive vibe off him, so he's either a neutral or has excellent control.

"Have a seat," he says, setting down a tablet and gesturing to the other side of the table. His tone makes it an offer, but in this context it's a thinly veiled command.

They silently file into the chairs facing the mirror.

"I'm Agent Thomas Pandit," he begins. Bucky studies him in lieu of searching the two-way mirror for his doms, and notices the agent's faintly South Asian features. "I'll be conducting these interviews on behalf of SHIELD. Everything we say is being recorded. I'm sure I don't need to instruct you to be truthful in all your statements."

Bucky and his friends glance at each other, then go back to eyeing Agent Pandit warily.

"Before we proceed with the rest of the introductions, I feel it's best that we start with clear expectations. I understand you've turned yourselves in willingly and are petitioning for leniency. I'm sure you're eager to tell your side of the story." There's an edge to his tone that says what he's not saying: _And I'm the unlucky bastard who'll have to record your bullshit excuses._

The agent leans forward and smiles. It's not a nice expression, but it's honest in a way Bucky appreciates. 

"But not today. Today isn't about _you_. Today I'm getting to the bottom of the largest successful terror attack of the last decade. You'll walk me through every unlocked door, broken passcode, and bullet fired. The world will have restitution later; first it needs to be able to protect itself from monsters like you. And you're going to tell me how to do that."

The room is unnaturally still, and it takes Bucky a moment to realize that he's holding his breath, listening for a reaction from the hidden room. This is a deviation from the script they'd been handed.

But no one interrupts.

They're on their own.

\---

"On April 24th of last year, the United Nations Peace Summit at the Élysée Palace in Paris was the target of a terrorist attack. The three of you are wanted for that crime. Do you admit to being behind it?"

Bucky doesn't look at the others, just nods once.

"What motivated this attack?"

"Mentallo ordered the summit destroyed," Clint says.

"Why?" When they shrug silently, Pandit frowns and changes the question: "Did he specify mass murder? Would it have been sufficient to cancel or interrupt the meeting? What exactly were your orders?"

"He said 'completely destroyed.'" Clint huffs at the agent's annoyed expression. "He wasn't a very talkative guy."

"Then whose idea was it to blow up the Élysée Palace?"

Bucky raises his chin. He doesn't look at the mirror when he says, "The plan was mine."

The agent shifts the _Sergeant Barnes_ folder to the top of his small pile and pages through it for a long minute. It probably contains records of missions he worked with the Howling Commandos; Dugan's after-action reports had frequently credited his input.

Pandit's expression is still neutral when he finishes reading, but apparently he considers Bucky a plausible mastermind, because he asks, "How long did you take to plan it?"

"Nine days."

"I presume you had access to floorplans, security protocols." Bucky nods. "Where did you get them?"

Natasha volunteers the answer. "HYDRA had an agent in the palace's Protocol office. A low-level manager. I don't know who she bribed for the plans, but she was the one that passed them on to Mentallo."

"And where is she now?"

"In the tomb at the Élysée Memorial. I killed her and took her place once she got me inside."

"And why would you do that?" The question is delivered with no hint of surprise.

She doesn't bat an eye at the question. "Extracting her wasn't part of our orders."

"Was killing her part of your orders? Or did you improvise?" He leans in, studying Natasha with fierce suspicion.

"If Mentallo wanted her out, he would have said," Bucky says quickly. "Her survival would have revealed more of HYDRA's influence in the government than he wanted. Wouldn't there have been an inquiry into her past actions in that department?"

"SHIELD will be initiating that inquiry shortly," Pandit says to cut him off, clearly uninterested in hearing more of Bucky's speculations. "What was her name?"

Bucky doesn't let himself smile at the memory of Natasha sneaking him into the Palace wearing the sleeper agent's clothes—a fashionable scarf hiding her collar. Even behind the mask of a dead woman's face, Natasha's eyes had gleamed with satisfaction as she reported neutralizing the HYDRA sleeper agent. 

"Emélie Verlaine."

"And what intelligence did Ms. Verlaine provide? Be as specific as possible."

The questions continue for hours, covering every piece of intel they had access to and every permutation of the plan they considered and discarded. Bucky fields the majority of the questions. His friends chime in wherever they can, but Bucky's the one who developed the strategy, and he'd only consulted them sparingly.

The impersonal nature of Pandit's interrogation is a relief of sorts. The man cares little for their motivations, sticking primarily to the facts of the attack. Bucky's answers are cut and dried; there's nothing he has to conceal behind carefully worded half-truths. _How many possible entrances to the Palace did you identify? How did you select which one to use? How did you know about the shielded room in the basement?_

But relief or no, it's unrelenting. Lunch comes and goes with barely a break in the onslaught, and Bucky takes frequent sips of water to soothe his aching throat.

By the time they move on to the last stages of the plan, Clint's grown antsy, crossing and uncrossing his legs, rubbing absently at his bare ankle.

"Tell me about your choice of sniper's nest. What was the single most important criterion?"

"Obviously I needed a direct line of sight all the way into the courtyard."

"Did Verlaine identify the location for you?"

Clint's face twists incredulously. "As if I'd let some office drone pick my perch?"

The agent waves him on impatiently.

"The old Suez building in Rue d'Astorg had a perfect sight line into the Élysée courtyard. The distance was easy enough to be laughable—definitely closer than I prefer—but _somebody_ wanted them to hear the shots," he rolls his eyes toward Bucky, who chuckles reflexively before he thinks better of it.

Pandit spares him a displeased look. "It would hardly have gone unnoticed even without the sound of gunfire; you mowed down the Nigerian delegate and his three-man security detail in seconds."

Clint ducks his head, but his lips are quirked. Bucky hopes Pandit will mistake the gesture for shame.

"Are you... _proud_ of yourself, Specialist Barton?" The interrogator's voice finally loses some of its veneer of dispassion.

_Shit._

Clint shrugs awkwardly, uncomfortable as ever with angry authority figures.

"He carried out the instructions I gave him, and he did it perfectly," Bucky says. "He was just following orders."

The agent's dark eyes fix on him for a long moment. Bucky doesn't let himself look away.

Pandit smiles again. "Ahh, yes. By this point, Sergeant Barnes, you had finished placing the shaped charges on the building supports of the central wing and were lurking near the security garage, yes?" 

"That's correct."

"So everything was in place, according to your plan."

Bucky watches his own reflection reach to fiddle with the edge of his new sling. Such an innocuous gesture—one he'd perfected this past year, when he needed a concealed weapon in easy reach.

"Yes."

"Then talk me through the rest of it, from the moment that Specialist Barton opened fire."

\---

With the Nigerian delegation dead at the front entrance and the building under attack from an unseen sniper, Palace security had corralled the panicking dignitaries, herding them to a shielded room in a riot of shouts and alarms.

Natasha'd joined Bucky by the garage, where they ambushed two _gendarmes_ , stealing their uniform jackets and a police car. 

Pandit twitches at this detail, then begins tapping quickly at his tablet. 

Bucky shares a puzzled look with Natasha. As the silence stretches out for several minutes, Bucky comes dangerously close to barking at Clint to stop twitching, dammit. Finally the interrogator spins his tablet toward them.

"These are all of the _gendarmes_ killed that day. While it's clear that you are indirectly responsible for all of these deaths, I'd like to know which two you murdered with your own hands."

There are 14 faces on the screen, predominantly young white males. Their faces mean nothing to Bucky. He bites his tongue, strangely embarrassed to admit that he never noticed the features of the men they'd ambushed in that garage.

"These two," Natasha says with a gesture, displaying her uncanny eye for details.

" _Officiers_ Didier and Montaigne." Pandit enlarges their photos in turn. Bucky still doesn't recognize them. "How did you do it?"

"I called out to get their attention. They never saw Natasha coming."

"This one's back was turned. I kicked out his knee and twisted his neck on the way down," Natasha says.

Bucky would speak up, but he has nothing to add. She'd been too quick for him to help.

Natasha continues as though Pandit's sharp gaze means nothing to her, "Montaigne turned to fight. His training had clearly been deficient; he was slow on his left side. I crushed his windpipe with my scarf in less than 4 seconds."

Pandit's lip curls with the distaste reserved for moldy fruit.

There's a band of pale skin at the base of Natasha's throat. She'd taken to wearing scarves all the time after losing the collar—as much camouflage as protection—but she'd abandoned them all at the Latverian border with the rest of their meager possessions. Even her knives are on the kitchen counter, several floors away.

"She kept their clothes clean so we could use their jackets," Bucky hastens to explain. He goes on to describe their speedy exit from the Palace in a stolen vehicle, one of many police cruisers peeling out in search of the sniper, siren blaring wildly over their heads. They'd picked up Clint two blocks from the Suez building and pulled over halfway up Montmartre, craning around in their seats to watch the show.

"Then I pressed the remote detonator, and the mission was complete," Bucky says. He'd watched through Clint's sniper scope as the eight shaped charges detonated in perfect sequence, almost too quick to count, sending the central wing of the Élysée Palace crashing down hard enough to shake the ground a kilometer away.

One thick eyebrow twitches.

"I took over the driving then," Clint adds, and Bucky still remembers that grim, wordless ride. "I got us out of the city, but Thor and the Hulk caught up with us in Saint-Denis."

Pandit sets down his tablet and works his jaw, studying the three of them. After a minute, he leans back and crosses his arms. 

Beside Bucky, Natasha stiffens in her chair.

Finally Pandit says, "It's common practice for the authorities to hold the details of some crimes back from the public. It's usually done to prevent attention-seekers taking credit for things they didn't do. But sometimes, it's to protect the public from things that are too horrible to publish."

Bucky doesn't so much as twitch, but he knows exactly what's coming. He wants to close his eyes.

"SHIELD's agreement with the Starks was made in good faith that you would answer every question truthfully. I'm not here to be fed only as much as you want to reveal; I'm here to pull every last secret out of you."

No one says a word.

The interrogator leans forward and stares Bucky straight in the eyes. "So why don't you explain about the Claymores in the basement?"

\---

_"Any objections, Bucky?" Mentallo prompts as though genuinely curious, pale eyes staring him down and seeing everything he can't afford to show._

_Bucky doesn't look at the others. He holds Mentallo's gaze and packs it all away. His voice is steady when he answers, "Of course not, Master."_

\---

"My orders were to 'completely destroy' the summit. Mentallo didn't have to specify the death count; 'completely' meant no survivors."

Bucky'd thought of everything when he planned the attack. He'd known that, once the shaped charges were in place, there wouldn't be any opportunity to test the remote detonator. Ebersol himself had designed the detonators, but Bucky'd been unwilling to trust their fate in his hands. He'd needed a backup plan.

"Some of the shaped charges could have failed; it's always a risk with remote detonation. If parts of the structure didn't collapse, there could have been pockets of survivors."

It'd taken an extra hour to smuggle the fragmentation bombs downstairs and set them up ringing the shielded basement.

The basement where the VIPs would be herded when the Élysée Palace came under siege. Lambs to the slaughter.

"I triggered the mines before the rest of the structure."

Those initial explosions had been nearly imperceptible from a distance, the screams and gore lost underground, only hinted at by the shattering of windows on the first floor. 

"The Claymores ensured that even if some of the charges failed, everyone in that room would bleed out before they could be rescued," Bucky finishes, holding the agent's gaze.

He doesn't need to ask whether they did their job; the headlines the next day had made it clear that no delegates had survived. 

The thousands of steel balls inside the Claymore mines would have cut through the crowd of delegates with terrible efficacy. It was overkill, utter carnage destined to give would-be rescuers nightmares for the rest of their lives.

There's silence after that, and Bucky knows that Agent Pandit and everyone behind the two-way mirror is picturing the smoke-choked killing floor he'd made of the safe room.

Iron Man and Captain America had been on the news, removing bodies from the wreckage.

"The shaped charges worked perfectly," he adds to break the silence. "They didn't suffer long." Far too little, and far too late, but all he could offer his victims at the time.

Pandit is gaping at him in horror. "They shouldn't have suffered _at all_ ," the man seethes, gripping the edge of the table. "These were delegates to a peace conference! They were trying to do something great for humanity, and you mowed them down in the dark. You could have done something, _anything_ , to mitigate the death toll. Arson, an RPG attack, even just started before half of them arrived—you identified all these options yourself. Even assuming you had to complete the mission, you could have spared some of them."

"Anything else would have risked failure."

"What would have happened if you failed? What could possibly have been worse than what you did to the 134 people you tore apart in that basement, or the 89 staff and security crushed in the rubble?"

"Failure wasn't an option," he repeats, but his voice comes out weaker than he means. He's losing the thread now, that fine line of bitter resignation that's gotten him this far lost in a wash of pulse-pounding dread. This is exactly what he'd been most afraid of, everything he can't afford to admit. If Pandit asks again.... 

Natasha takes his hand and pulls it under the table, squeezing hard. He hadn't noticed it was trembling. 

\---

"You monster," Pandit declares, pushing to his feet to loom over him.

Bucky's dimly aware of Clint shouting something back, of Natasha murmuring something in his ear, but he's focused on her merciless grip and his own breathing.

"You're _all_ monsters!" The interrogator shouts, pacing behind the table. "Look at you; you're proud of what you did! I don't care what kind of deal you think you made; SHIELD won't stand for this." 

"If anyone's to be blamed for that day, it's me," Bucky says quietly, shakily standing for the first time in hours.

"You shut the hell up, Barnes, you know that's not true," Clint snaps, but Bucky talks over him, voice growing in volume.

"Clint shot four men on my orders. Natasha killed a HYDRA sleeper agent and two _gendarmes_. But _I_ planned it all. I placed the explosives, I gave the order to start the shooting, and I triggered all of the detonators."

He's not looking at the mirror. He's not—he can't—because it wouldn't change anything even if he could see through it; he has to do this.

His friends will want to fight him on it, but it's the truth. And if they insist on standing by him here, he doesn't know what'll happen to them. He loves them too much to let them be punished for him anymore. 

" _I_ should be held accountable for the Élysée massacre."

"I didn't say to do this, _lapushka_ ," Natasha growls, pushing her way in front of him, and then Clint's lunging across the table to grab at Pandit's lapels, shouting that he has to listen to him, that Barnes doesn't know what he's talking about, and suddenly guards are spilling into the room, pulling the interrogator free and shoving Bucky and his friends away from the table to stand against the back wall. 

The furious agent presses his fingers to his ear for a moment and then announces, "We're done for the day. We'll resume tomorrow. Send them back upstairs."

The guards gesture them out into the hallway at gunpoint, and in his peripheral view Bucky sees his dominants emerging from the next door. He tries not to notice that they're both pale-faced and shaking.

\---

His stomach drops even as the elevator rises. He's aware of Natasha's and Clint's silent outrage beside him, but he stares at his dominants' backs, bracing himself for their reaction.

When they reach the family floor they tumble out into the main room, scattering like pool balls. 

Steve whirls on him and demands, "What the hell was that?"

Bucky ignores the question for a moment, deliberately turning his own back on his doms and harshly ordering his friends, "Get out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere, Buck, you've got some expl—"

"Clint!" Bucky barks, and it sounds as raw as he feels.

"Come on, _solnyshko_ ," Natasha says, pulling Clint away. They grab their weapons from the counter and head down the hall without a backward glance.

Bucky waits until they've disappeared before turning to face his dominants.

Tony appears devastated, his face and body slack with a horror that makes Bucky want to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.

Steve, however, is pacing, temper barely held in check.

Bucky swallows, then thrusts his chin forward. "Well?"

"Oh, Christ, sweetheart—"

"What in god's name were you thinking!"

"I told the truth. Just like you promised Director Fury I would."

"You weren't supposed to take all the blame on yourself! That's not what we discussed!"

"Bucky," Tony chokes, and stumbles toward him, one arm outstretched.

"Don't," Steve says quickly, catching his husband by the shoulders, and Bucky _hates_ him.

"You'd rather I lied, wouldn't you? You want me to blame my friends for everything, so you can throw them away to appease the rest of the world."

"Of course we don't want that."

Bucky talks over him. "You think you can keep me locked up here and delude yourselves that I'm innocent. But I'm not, Steve. I'm guilty. You heard the agent: I'm a fucking monster. But I'll be damned before I sell my friends to save my own skin. I won't abandon them, no matter what you say."

"I'm saying you don't have to paint the target on yourself! None of you are to blame, Buck. Not your friends and not you. You can't invite the world to hang you for something you were powerless to prevent!"

Laughter rips out of his throat, thin and cutting as a garrote. "I was far from powerless. Or weren't you paying attention down there, Steve? Maybe you've forgotten what you saw with your own eyes last year?"

Steve looks sickened, and Bucky has to turn away, disgusted by himself. His doms had seen his handiwork first hand, had carried his bloodied victims in their arms. A long-repressed shudder catches him by surprise, as though it's only now that he can afford to be horrified by his own actions. 

"Stop it," Tony says. "Both of you, just stop."

Bucky watches with concern as Tony sags, apparently bone weary. Steve shifts his grip to support him, but Tony shrugs him off.

"Neither of you means what you're saying. You're just upset. We're all upset. That was..." he wipes one hand over his face. "We knew that was coming. We just didn't know they'd start with it." His attempt at a reassuring smile is weak.

"Please, I'm—I'm not angry. Not really. It's just that you can't take all the responsibility on yourself. I know you think you're to blame, but you were a slave, Bucky. You were wearing that damn collar."

Bucky shakes his head, because of course Steve doesn't understand, even after all this, but Tony's approaching him slowly.

"Sweetheart, I know today was hard for you. I'm so, so sorry you had to go through that. And I...I know better than to ask for this, I do know—"

"Tony—"

"Steven Grant Stark, I swear to god if you say one more word right now I'm divorcing you. One more word," Tony snarls without turning around, and Bucky flinches. 

He waits warily as Tony offers him a hesitant smile.

"Bucky, please, can I hold you?"

Bucky blinks, astonished.

"I know it's selfish, but I just need to know you're okay. I saw how it hurt you to relive all that—god, the things that bastard made you do—and I just, I need to know you're really here and you're okay." Tony waits, arms at his sides, eyes burning.

"I...." His dom's words stir something fierce and painful behind Bucky's lungs, but he finds himself hesitating. He wants Tony's touch, wants its comfort, but it'd be wrong to take it for himself. He can't even pretend to be worthy of his dominant's regard right now. It'd been so much easier yesterday when Tony just grabbed him. If only he'd do so again—

But Bucky can't afford to be careless—not with this unexpected opportunity. Obviously he should say yes. Tony still wanting him is an unbelievable second chance to win his doms over in time to help his friends.

"You don't have to say yes," Steve says quietly, and that makes the decision for him in a flash of resentment.

"Yes," he says to Tony, and steels himself.

But his dom doesn't seize him. Instead, Tony moves slowly into his space, until they're barely inches apart, until Bucky can feel the heat of Tony's body across his chest and thighs, prickling warmth on his cheek.

He holds himself desperately still and aches. 

It's only when Tony whispers, "Please, love," that Bucky realizes his dom has been holding his breath, too.

"Tony," he whispers in return, and leans forward to press their foreheads together. His dom's sob of relief is a warm gust across his lips.

"You're okay?" Tony gasps.

He can't truthfully give that assurance, so he settles for, "I'm here."

"Can I..."

Bucky nods helplessly. He can't tell anymore if this is calculation or genuine desire.

Tony's hands are shaking when they reach for him, but his right slides confidently enough behind Bucky's neck, navigating around the wires there, and his left falls lightly on Bucky's good shoulder and smoothes downward to gently encircle his wrist.

Bucky shivers at the sensation of being _held_ , however loosely. He opens his mouth to voice his gratitude but finds himself blurting, "I'm a bad man. You shouldn't—"

Tony's grip clamps hard on his wrist and neck. "You're our good boy," he whispers harshly. "Always."

Someone makes a helpless whimper, and Bucky's shocked to realize it came from him. There's a bewitching heat trickling through his veins, inviting him to sink into the embrace and trust Tony to keep him safe.

"Steve," Tony calls quietly. "Come here."

Bucky rolls his forehead against Tony's just enough to see Steve. His other dominant is still meters away, frowning at their embrace. Steve avoids meeting his eyes, and the fear comes creeping back. 

He can feel this chance slipping away. It's not enough if only Tony forgives him. Bucky and his friends will go back into that room tomorrow, and there's no telling what they'll be asked to reveal, or how long Bucky can hold out. If he loses Steve now, he'll lose him for good. And god, he can't lose him.

"Steve," Bucky whispers, and waits. Tony's grip on his neck shifts, as though his dom can feel his tension. 

Steve takes a deep breath. When he looks up, his eyes are wild with longing and guilt, and a soft noise sneaks out of Bucky's throat.

He breaks Tony's hold just enough to turn to face Steve, meeting his gaze steadily as the man moves closer. 

His dom stops when he's still a foot away, hesitating. Bucky should coax and cajole him into closing the gap between them. The sweet words wouldn't even be a lie, not when he can feel them pooling warm in his stomach.

But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, "Yes."

Steve takes his hand then, and finally, _finally_ —it'd been so long. He'd gone his whole life without Steve's touch, but just 48 hours without it now and he's a wreck. 

The contact sets his heart racing, his skin burning all over with little electric sparks. Steve appears equally affected, his eyelids drooping heavily as he wraps both of his hands around Bucky's one good hand and pulls it to his chest.

Bucky leans against Tony—he can't feel anything with his bad shoulder, but he revels in the support—and stares at Steve wonderingly, his heart brimming with gratitude for the care in his dominant's regard. Growing lightheaded with the intensity of their eye contact, Bucky lowers his eyes to study their linked hands.

Steve's hands are smooth and unmarked, and it takes Bucky a moment to remember why that's wrong. Because Steve had done something last night, something to hurt himself—his hand, Tony'd said—and somehow Bucky'd known it was his own fault. Whatever happened, it's apparently already healed, but only now does Bucky realize that the back of his own hand bears bloody marks where Natasha had dug in her nails.

The spell breaks abruptly, and he takes stock of his current position with astonishment.

It's a miracle that either of these men would want to be anywhere near him after what he confessed downstairs. It's the bond; it has to be. Just biological need overriding their good sense. And Bucky has to use it. Despite the sick twist of guilt in his stomach, he has to use what advantage he has in this situation. He has to do this now.

"Can we...?" Bucky flails for the right words to make it happen. "Can we—" 

"Let's not," Steve pauses to clear his throat. "Let's not rush anything, darling."

The familiar flicker of anger that follows is dulled by relief. Of course Steve is still resisting. It's frustrating, but right now Bucky's as grateful for the delay as he had been for his touch.

"Right," he says, and pulls slowly away from them both, swallowing the apology he wants to make for everything about today, about his past, about all the things that make him unworthy of them. He aches to explain—as though the explanation itself wouldn't make things so much worse.

"It's been a long day. I'm going to..." he waves vaguely toward the bedrooms, "go check on the others."

"You take care of yourself, too. Alright, Bucky?" Steve says very gently.

"And call if you need anything, love."

Bucky smiles automatically, uncomfortable with their open affection after what he'd just tried to do to them. "Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As part of the previously mentioned destruction of the Peace Summit at the Élysée Palace, Bucky deployed fragmentation bombs in the room where the delegates were. Any delegates who survived the shrapnel attack were killed when the Palace collapsed on itself a minute later. The descriptions are not graphic, but there are references to the injuries and carnage that resulted.
> 
> The chapter is broken up into multiple short segments. If you prefer not to read the above depiction, skip the segment that begins with "My orders were to 'completely destroy' the summit."
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _Agentka_ = Agent  
>  _Krasnaya Komnata_ = the Red Room  
>  _Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti_ = Federal Security Service (FSB)  
>  _gendarmes_ = police officers  
>  _Officiers_ = Officers


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodily autonomy

"What would you say was the effective range of the collars?"

Natasha shrugs. "It couldn't have been more than a few hundred meters, I imagine. But I never saw them used further than a hundred."

"You had handlers with you at all times, then?"

"No."

Bucky shifts his weight to mask his tension. This is the dangerous part, where they inevitably dig their hole even deeper. He studies the agent carefully rather than allow himself a glance at the mirror.

Pandit cocks his head. "Then who carried the controllers on your missions?"

"The collars weren't for missions. They were so the HYDRA officers could protect themselves from us," Clint says.

"Mentallo didn't use shocks to enforce his orders?"

"Well, some mornings he liked to use them as an alarm clock." The agent is clearly unamused, so Clint elaborates, "They kept us from hurting the officers. Usually the order was 'Watch the teeth.'" Clint shows off his own with a clack.

Bucky's stomach rolls at Pandit's twitch of comprehension, but the agent's discomfort is quickly pushed aside.

"If I'm hearing you correctly," he says, setting down his tablet and placing the fingertips of both hands on the table. "These wires you're flaunting as exculpatory evidence for the crimes you admit committing...had nothing whatsoever to do with those crimes."

"Player gets a prize!" Clint snarks. Bucky shares a glance with Natasha, and she smacks Clint in the back of the head.

"I'm waiting."

Bucky takes a deep breath, fully aware how unbelievable it's going to sound. "Mentallo didn't use the collars to control us. He used mind control."

Dark amusement flickers across Pandit's face. "Ah, yes, the supposed 'telepathy.'"

"He planted orders in our heads, compulsions we couldn't disobey, no matter what."

"Such as?"

"Such as to never hurt him, never attempt to undermine or escape him."

"What happened if you defied those orders?"

"We just couldn't," Bucky says. "My first mission with them," he gestures to his friends, "I was their driver. I dropped them off, and then I was supposed to wait for them to finish and drive them back. I planned to make a break for it once they were out of sight."

"And what happened?"

He shivers. "I couldn't even turn the key in the ignition. As long as I intended to escape, I couldn't move a muscle." He doesn't think he'll ever forget the horror of that discovery, the realization that his body wasn't his own to control.

Pandit looks intrigued but far from convinced. "If Mentallo's power was so absolute, why did he bother with control collars at all?"

"Fucker was lazy about using his powers," Clint says. "And a selfish asshole." 

Natasha corrects him, "Because the compulsions only related to Mentallo, he was the only one who could use us for missions. It also meant the rest of HYDRA had to fear us, which only increased his status. The officers were given remotes for the collars just to keep us from killing them."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yeah. Nat bagged one her first year!"

"He allowed himself to be distracted," Natasha says, smugly raising an eyebrow. "Very sloppy."

Pandit looks annoyed at their flippancy, but Bucky's chest aches; it was before his time, but he's heard from Clint how badly the other officers punished her for that transgression.

"This is rather hard to believe."

Tasha drops the amused look and leans forward, deadly serious. "Look at us. We're neither weak nor stupid. Do you really believe that, given enough time, we wouldn't have found a way free of something as limited as a control collar?" The agent holds her gaze, admirably unfazed by the full intensity of her stare. "Of course not. Mentallo's telepathy is what gave him all the power. He gave the orders, and we couldn't disobey." 

Bucky takes a moment to appreciate how she twists the truth, even though her next words are hard to swallow.

"We didn't serve him willingly. We were pawns."

"You were helpless?" Pandit prompts skeptically.

"Yes," Bucky lies.

\---

Steve is upset.

At least, that's what it looks like from where Bucky's standing. He tunes out the doctor and focuses on the other side of the room.

He can't make out their words, but Steve's got that pugnacious look he had with the SHIELD Director a few days ago, all emphatic gestures and stiff shoulders. 

Steve had earlier introduced the woman he's arguing with as Agent Maria Hill. At the time, his demeanor had implied a guarded respect. But whatever their history, she appears to be angering him now, and her body language says she's just as stubborn as Steve.

Bucky eyes the guards between him and Steve and wonders if they'd allow him to cross the room. He and his friends have only just been permitted on the medical floor, and SHIELD seems pretty paranoid about anything they might get up to down here.

He looks around again for Tony instead. Where Steve can keep an argument quiet and tightly focused, Tony seems to blow them up into full-on scenes. If Tony were here, Bucky wouldn't have to work so hard to hear what they're saying. 

"Now, Bucky, tell me about the collar you wore. How long did you have it? Did it have any secondary functionality, or was it primarily used for shocks?”

Bucky turns his attention back to the woman before him. Dr. Carolina Rubio is short and on the far side of middle age judging by the lines on her face and the touch of grey in her dark hair. Nothing about her reads as a threat, and for that he's intensely grateful.

"I got the collar about...40 months ago. They used it plenty at first, just shocks, but not very often after the first few months. We escaped about a year ago when the electronics were deactivated by an EMP. We were able to cut away the collars after that, but we couldn't do anything about the wires."

"I think it's tremendous you managed to get away," she says, looking sympathetic. "You should be proud of yourselves."

Bucky ducks his head uncomfortably. Their escape was solely due to Tony's selfless act and the machinations of Mentallo's backstabbing partner. Bucky'd done nothing to secure their freedom.

Dr. Rubio moves on to Natasha next, and Bucky and Clint fidget in the medical gowns they'd exchanged for their shirts. Bucky hugs the prosthetic against his chest, uneasy before strangers without a sling.

"These scars—you've been collared before!" the doctor exclaims, examining Tasha's neck.

"Age 13 to 21. My handlers removed it when they wanted to start me on infiltration jobs," Natasha reports neutrally. But there's a flicker of triumph in her eyes when she adds, "They thought they didn't need it anymore."

Bucky watches Rubio carefully for a reaction to that, but the woman just looks concerned about her patient.

"How long before you were collared again?"

"Four years."

"And how long did you wear this second collar?"

"Just over four years."

The doctor tuts worriedly and takes extensive notes, and Bucky irrationally wishes he could put himself between the two women.

"Six years ago," Clint snaps as the doctor examines his wires. He doesn't otherwise respond to the platitudes she offers.

The guards take them one at a time into the imaging room for CT scans. Bucky keeps silent as his friends are led away from him, reminding himself that they're not far, still on the same floor, even if there's a closed door and an armed guard between them. And the scanner is just a glorified X-ray machine, nothing to worry about.

The reassurance rings hollow once it's Bucky's turn to lie on the bed, surrounded by humming medical equipment, the hectic flush of the contrast injection spreading through his body. The mechanized bed jerks slowly into the tunnel of the scanner, and Rubio's voice, slightly distorted by the intercom, repeats, "Don't move. Hold very still. Now, breathe in."

Bucky's not usually claustrophobic, and the tunnel is shallow, barely a couple feet long. He could get out easily if he had to, could fight back if the others needed him. But he's not allowed to move, he reminds himself. If he moves, he throws off the scans, and who knows what the consequences would be. 

The whirring of the CT machine is like being inside an enormous engine.

"Breathe out."

Bucky breathes out. He holds himself very still. He's being good.

"This is going to be a longer pass. Hold your breath until I say. Breathe in."

Bucky breathes in and holds it. The scanner is so loud that anyone could be sneaking into the room with him and he wouldn't know. He feels hot all over, prickly, and there's a metallic taste on his tongue. He's holding his breath, and his heart is beating nearly as loud as the machine, and he knows better than to move. 

Especially if _he_ comes back.

"Breathe out."

Bucky doesn't dare. He'll get in trouble. He's not allowed to make any noise, and if he breathes out now he'll release the terrified whimper trapped in his throat. 

"Bucky Barnes, please exhale now.... Can you hear me, Bucky? Breathe out."

He wishes there were straps to hold him in place. When there are straps on the table, he doesn't have to work as hard to keep from moving.

His lungs are burning. He's going to start shaking any second if he keeps this up. He's going to have to disobey an order—it's just a question of which one. He always has to choose; it's part of their sick game. 

Better to be pathetic; Ebersol prefers him pathetic.

He exhales on a hoarse sob, then takes shuddering breaths while he waits for the punishment.

A woman's voice is speaking far away, but she's unimportant when Ebersol's in the room with him.

_"Mr. Barnes, sir, do you require assistance?"_

Bucky opens his eyes at the sound of Jarvis's voice and finally recalls his surroundings. He whimpers in relief, gulping down air gratefully. He desperately wants to curl into a ball and hide, but some part of him knows he has to stay still. 

For the scans. So they can all get the wires out tomorrow. The others won't consent to their surgeries unless he's included. He has to do this for them.

"Are you alright, Bucky? Do you need to stop? If you can't answer me, we're going to have to stop. Are you alright to continue?"

"I'm okay," he says, finally. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. Glad to know you're still with me. Are you able to continue?"

"Yes, yes, please, I'm sorry."

The doctor doesn't ask him to hold his breath again, and the scan continues once he composes himself.

Rubio hurries into the imaging room while the machine is still cycling down and tries to help him sit up. His muscles are slow to unlock, and he can't move quickly or smoothly, but he still shies away from her hands and growls that he'll manage on his own. She backs away at that but stays within reach until he makes it back into the main medical room.

"Sweetheart!"

He's barely turned toward the sound of Tony's voice when arms close around him and squeeze him tight.

Bucky goes stock still. Tony is unbearably hot all around him, bite of beard where their cheeks are pressed together, arms like steel restraints.

Every instinct screams to shove him away, but Bucky's not _allowed_. He endures.

"Sorry I was late. I was overseeing the construction downstairs. Everything's going to be ready, don't worry."

He ignores Tony's prattle and grounds himself by checking in with his surroundings. His friends are watching him from the corner, expressions grave. Dr. Rubio's brow is furrowed. And even on the far side of the room, Steve's eyes are slanted in their direction.

He curses himself; he's supposed to welcome his dom's touch.

Willing his locked muscles to relax, Bucky leans his weight into Tony's chest and brings his good arm up to wrap around his dominant's waist. He forces a smile into his voice when he responds, "I'm sure you've thought of everything."

There, that was almost convincing. But he needs to do more.

He squeezes Tony tight, hard edge of the arc reactor digging into his chest, and hums. "Missed you."

Tony steps back but runs his hands up and down Bucky's arms, saying, "Sorry, sorry, I wanted to be here. How are the scans going? Is Dr. Rubio treating you alright? She's the best in this field—didn't I promise you the best?"

"Everything's going fine," Bucky assures him, though he flicks a nervous glance over at Rubio. He hadn't thought to tell her not to mention his panic attack to his dominants. Luckily, she's gone back to talking to Clint and Natasha.

But then Tony's grabbing him again, cupping his jaw with one hand and the join of his shoulder with the other, calloused thumb digging into his collarbone through the thin gown, leaning in close, and Bucky swallows something jagged and makes a fist to keep himself from objecting.

Tony's eyes are dark, so determined when he says, "It's not fine, not yet, but I swear, love, I'm going to fix things. You'll see. We'll get those wires out, and I'll fix your arm, and it's going to be better. My poor dear, I can't—" Tony's fingers brush against the wires, and Bucky's stomach turns in helpless horror.

He bats Tony's hand away from his neck, but recovers enough to soften the rejection with another fake smile. 

"The doctor seems great," he says lamely, desperate to change the topic.

"A word, Stark?" Agent Hill calls, and Bucky watches with relief as Tony grumbles but walks over to join her and Steve.

"Always nice to see that stick up your ass, Maria. Fury sending you to do his dirty business again?"

Hill ignores the jab. "Now that I've got you both here, we need to discuss the reality of your situation." Sure enough, she has to raise her voice to talk over Tony when he tries to interrupt. "Time's running out, gentlemen. You're sitting on a time bomb here, and the clock is ticking. You need to get a move on with your bonding. After tomorrow, I'm not sure how much longer we'll be able to keep a lid on this."

"The doctor signed the NDA. The nurses and anesthesiologist will sign tomorrow. All that plus patient confidentiality, and I'm not seeing a problem."

"It's not the medics she's worried about," Steve grates out, obviously still angry, and then says something Bucky doesn't quite hear.

He only makes out the end of Tony's confused reply, "...for the _surgeries?_ "

Someone nearby clears her throat, and Bucky turns to see Dr. Rubio beckoning him over to join his friends. Bucky goes regretfully.

"I want to thank the three of you for your trust and patience today. I know you're in an...unusual legal position." She hums awkwardly and wrings her hands. "I'm not used to providing front-line counselling. I just perform the surgeries; the activism groups are the ones who usually handle.... Well. I can see that it's been a long time for you. And while it may be difficult to accept, you do have fundamental rights. It's your right to have your needs met."

Bucky has something cutting to say about any assumptions regarding their 'rights,' but he crosses his arm over his chest and says nothing. 

"I've spoken with that woman from SHIELD. She's assured me that they have a therapeutic dominant on staff who will be made available to you if you wish—" Dr. Rubio falters as they all stiffen. 

Clint scowls fiercely, and Natasha puts her hand on his elbow.

"We've always looked after ourselves," Bucky says, furious.

"This is a basic biological need, and a healthy drop is imperative if you're to recover from the ordeal you've been through in a timely manner. Dynamic withdrawal has been shown to have a deleterious effect on submissives' immune system as well as on the body's ability to heal. I assure you, therapeutic drops are carefully supervised and involve minimal physical contact."

Bucky shifts angrily as she makes eye contact with first Clint and then Natasha, but he flinches outright when she locks gazes with him. Something lurches behind his ribcage as he realizes that she saw through his performance with Tony and knows things aren't right between him and his dominants. And if a stranger could tell, then his doms have probably noticed, too.

_Shit shit shit._

"Tests complete, doctor?" Hill interrupts, walking toward them followed by the Starks. "Is there anything else you need before tomorrow?"

"No, Agent. Provided the surgical suite is prepped to my specifications—"

"It's being done as we speak," Tony interjects.

"Then I'll see you all tomorrow. Thank you for meeting with me," Dr. Rubio says, and holds out her hand for the three of them to shake.

"We're done here," Hill concludes sharply. "Fieldtrip's over; everyone back upstairs."

"Hold up, Princess Elsa. I'm going to run some tests of my own, first," Tony says. "Steve can take the others upstairs, but I'd like to get some scans of your arm, if that's okay with you, Buck? I'm not sure when they'll next let us down here."

"Of course!" Bucky agrees, desperate to make up for his earlier misstep. 

"I'm not leaving him down here unguarded."

"Fine, leave some goons if you have to. But your people wait out by the elevator." At Hill's hesitation, Tony rolls his eyes. "I don't think I'm in danger of being overpowered," he quips, gesturing to Bucky's dead arm.

"If anything happens, Stark—"

"Yes, fine, I promise to call if he attacks me," Tony sighs with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Bucky shoots Natasha a wild-eyed look at the inappropriate joke, but she just smirks.

The room quickly empties of people, but Tony's chatter fills the space as he ushers Bucky to a chair surrounded by more medical equipment.

"I tell you, it's been murder the last couple of days with no real data to work with. Bruce has had it with guesswork and is threatening to quit on me. Thank goodness the boys in blue finally let you down here, or I'd have had to start moving this equipment up to my lab piecemeal."

It's vast and empty with just the two of them in sight, and Bucky can't help but be uneasy amidst the unfamiliar machines. He casts about for a way to seem cooperative. "Do you need to see the connection points?"

"Are you comfortable with that, sweetheart? I can recalibrate the equipment to pass through...." Tony trails off as Bucky hurriedly shrugs out of the hospital gown.

Bucky slaps on another easy smile and sits in the chair, determined not to show how anxious he is at baring his skin to his dom. If this is what Tony wants, then he won't deny him.

The stunned silence that follows is maddening. Bucky's intimately familiar with the long-dulled horror of where the metal arm meets his flesh, the uneven waves of scar tissue that radiate out from the site like an infection. He can well imagine its off-putting effect and wouldn't be surprised if his dominants prefer him to keep it covered most of the time. But he needs them to believe he's comfortable giving them access to his body, and so he fixes his eyes on a point straight ahead and lets Tony stare.

When his dom backs away, though, Bucky can't resist checking his reaction. Tony's right hand is pressed to his own chest, blocking the light of the arc reactor through his tee shirt, and he's gazing around the room in alarm.

"This isn't right," Tony whispers, pale with horror.

Shame flashes cold across Bucky's skin, followed immediately by resentment. It's not as though the scars were his choice.

"You should have someone with you for this. Can I get someone? Steve? Or your friends—do you want your friends with you? This has to be making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry, I didn't think."

"What?" 

It takes another few seconds for Bucky to realize that Tony's not repulsed by his scars, but rather upset on his behalf; his expression is one of pity, no doubt imagining some of the things that'd been done to him, and— _no_. Bucky can't let either of them dwell on that or he's liable to have another panic attack. He has to salvage this.

"No! No, Tony. Just you is fine. Just you, and I'm good."

Tony's unease fades into a gentle smile. "You're always good, love," he murmurs, deliberately misinterpreting Bucky's words.

Naked _want_ swells up to choke him, and he turns his head away to hide the longing for approval he knows must be on his face.

His dominant clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his tone is brisk and impersonal. "Right, let's get you in position, then. I'm going to tilt the chair back about halfway, okay?"

Tony keeps up the businesslike demeanor as he takes hold of Bucky's dead arm and manipulates the prosthetic into various positions, rolling different machines over to run scans from every angle.

It takes concentration to counterbalance each unexpected movement of the arm, and in the silence of the room it's easy to lose himself to the sense memory of holding utterly still lest he interfere with the dominant's work. The burning in his lungs alerts him that he's holding his breath again. He chides himself to stop thinking about Ebersol, but the isolated environment and Tony's uncharacteristic coolness are wreaking havoc with his head.

"Can you say something?"

"Hmm? Say what, dearest?"

"Anything. Just talk." Reminding himself to appear at ease, he suggests, "Tell me about when you first met Steve."

Tony flicks him a smile before ducking over a keyboard. "Count yourself lucky you didn't know us in those days," he begins, and goes on to describe how they'd gotten on like oil and water, bickering terribly over every little issue. "Things went on like that for months. Until the moment we discovered the bond."

Bucky makes an inquiring sound but doesn't move a muscle as the device suspended above him casts a red light on the arm.

"It was during an Avengers action a few years ago. Did you hear about Chinzilla— _my_ name for it, by the way, trademark pending—that enormous rodent-thing some idiot let loose in Cleveland? What the news didn't report was that the beastie turned out to be a gigantic, fluffy distraction for AIM, a fact we discovered only after engaging with it. 

"Steve was about to do something pigheaded and self-sacrificing—he'll tell you it was me, but don't listen to him—and we were shouting at each other because like hell was I going to let my father's gold-medal science fair project put himself in the path of an experimental raygun before I'd exhausted all the alternatives. And one of us must have slipped into voice, because suddenly we both just knew. And the rest is tabloid history."

"And did you bond with each other right away?" Bucky asks, voice wobblier than he'd prefer.

Tony gives him a knowing look. "We pretty much tore off each other's clothes the moment we got somewhere private. We bonded in the middle of things."

Bucky flushes with jealousy.

Luckily, Tony doesn't leave him in silence. He's brimming with amusement when he says, "The first thing the press wanted to know, aside from how good the sex was, is what it's like discovering that you're bonded to another dom. The way they talked about it, you'd think we invented the practice, when I guarantee you most doms have at least thought about a threesome at some point in their lives."

"I think I heard rumors of you doing more than just thinking about it," Bucky manages, attempting to match his dom's playful tone.

"Oh, I've done my share of double-domming," he says with an eyebrow waggle. "Nothing wrong with a little tag-team action. Though to be frank, I was a little worried how Steve would handle it; you know the time period he came from. Terrible prudes—or so I thought! It turns out," and Tony's voice drops to a whisper, "He had quite a bit of experience, too."

Bucky gapes at him, and Tony nods.

"Honest-to-god truth. Ask him about SSR Agent Peggy Carter some time. I promise, he blushes adorably."

Bucky's still trying to wrap his head around the image of Steve making time with a fellow dominant in the 40s when Tony stands to push the latest machine away, and the unexpected height difference spikes Bucky's anxiety levels.

"There we go, all finished."

"Thanks," Bucky fumbles, trying to act natural and attentive. "I really appreciate what you're doing for me."

Something in his words makes Tony's shoulders slump. The circles under his eyes are very dark from this angle. "Don't thank me. God, don't—. I don't think I can ever apologize enough for what I did to you. I should be thanking you; it's not often I get to fix my mistakes."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bucky blurts. His memories of the event aren't very clear, but he knows that he and Tony had only just recognized the bond that lay between them, and that Ebersol must have triggered his collar as punishment for failing to kill Iron Man. When he'd come to, still disoriented from the shock and the drop, Tony'd already saved him by triggering an electromagnetic pulse that deactivated their collars. The fact that his bionic arm was also a casualty of the pulse was nothing compared to the taste of freedom.

"Tony, you _freed_ us. If not for your EMP, I don't know where we'd be." 

But Tony's not listening. "I should have known!" he exclaims, beginning to pace. "I could have had a new arm ready for you by now. All that time you were suffering, and I wasn't doing anything to help—"

"Hey," Bucky says sharply, and stretches out his hand in offering when Tony finally looks back at him. "I think you did pretty great. I'm here, aren't I?"

His dom's face relaxes, and in a moment he's by Bucky's side, looming over him and pulling his hand to his lips. The scratch of beard tickles his skin and sends shivers up his spine, and Bucky's still reeling from the mercurial change of Tony's mood when his dominant's gaze moves appreciatively over his bare torso, no longer lingering on the ugly seam.

Bucky feels his nipples tighten in response, and he blushes. "Tony," he whispers. He hesitates when Tony meets his eyes, caught between fear of this overwhelming intimacy and the long-forgotten twist of desire.

Tony glances down at his bare chest again and then back up, and his teeth nip Bucky's knuckles experimentally. When Bucky nods fractionally, Tony touches his jaw, fingers just missing his parted lips. 

"There you are," Tony murmurs.

Bucky quakes, every muscle in his body gone tense with confused longing as his dom's hand trails down his throat and comes to rest lightly on his sternum. Tony's other hand moves to cup his cheek. His eyes fix on Bucky's lips, and he leans forward and down, and _yes, finally_.

Bucky strains upward, determined to meet him, but the restraint across his chest holds him in place, reminds him with a jolt of the order not to move. He jerks back with a wounded noise, aware that he's disobeyed and will have to be punished.

The pressure on his chest disappears instantly, as does the touch at his face, and Bucky tries not to cower as he waits for retaliation.

"Love? Bucky. Bucky, are you alright?" Tony's soft tone gradually tugs him back to the present, and Bucky blinks wildly at him for a moment. 

Then he covers his eyes and stifles a groan, mortified and disappointed in equal measure. "Sorry," he mumbles. 

"Hey, c'mon," Tony cajoles. When Bucky risks a peek, he discovers that Tony hasn't pulled as far away as he'd feared. His dom has stopped touching but he's close by, holding himself still while he waits for his submissive to get his shit together. "Bad flash?"

"Yeah," Bucky manages, averting his eyes once more. Tony steps back, and Bucky thinks about catching his hand again, trying to rescue the moment and push through his stupid panic. He'd been making real strides; maybe he can still buy some goodwill. But he still can't seem to move.

His dominant returns to his side holding the tee shirt he'd removed for the CT scan. Their fingers don't brush when Bucky accepts it, and Tony lets him struggle into the garment unaided. 

"PTSD's nothing to be ashamed of, okay? You've been through something incredibly traumatizing, and it's going to take you a while to heal. You may feel fine one minute and then freak out the next. Setbacks are inevitable."

Bucky bites his tongue and looks down. Hill had said time was running out. He can't afford setbacks if he's going to secure his dominants before it's too late.

"Talking about it might help—but I understand if you don't want to talk to us right away," he adds when Bucky jerks his head in denial. "I wish we could get a therapist in here, but SHIELD's being sticklers about your contact with the outside world."

Tony steps back, clearly giving Bucky space this time, so Bucky stands and follows him toward the door.

"It really helped having Rhodey to talk to when I got back from Afghanistan. My friend, Colonel Rhodes, he'd looked for me while I was missing. Just knowing that meant a lot, you know? Even though I was safe at home, I still had bad moments. Talking with Rhodey got me through some of the bad ones."

Bucky keeps his eyes on the floor and tugs at the neck of his tee shirt.

"Is there anyone we could put you in touch with who could help? They'd have to be cleared by Fury. Maybe—have you thought about calling Sergeant Dugan?"

He trips over his own feet. "No!" he snaps.

"I know for a fact he looked for you, Bucky. From what I gather, you two were...close. Maybe it'd help."

As Hill promised, there's a guard waiting beside the elevator. Bucky's still off-balance enough to want to cower closer to his dom for protection, but he makes himself stand tall. That doesn't mean he can bring himself to meet the stranger's eyes.

"I don't want to talk to him," he tells Tony as they board the elevator. 

\---

Bucky wakes with a gasp, throat tight with the weight of unvoiced screams. He thrashes all three limbs just to be sure he isn't still paralyzed, and then kicks at the tangled blankets as he scrambles up to the head of the bed. It's so dark in the room that he can't see his hand, but he flexes his fingers and makes a tight fist until the hard planes of the headboard against his back dispel the last of the nightmare. 

There's a soft knock from the direction of the doorway, and then Steve's voice calling quietly, "Bucky, are you alright?"

"Steve?"

There's a whisper of air as the door is pushed wide, and Bucky realizes he hadn't heard the handle turn.

"Sorry to disturb you. Your door was open, and it sounded like you were having a nightmare. Are you alright now?"

"I'm fine." Bucky never sleeps with an open door. Natasha must have been meddling again, setting him up for a late-night talk with one of his dominants. But she's right to interfere, he realizes, the events of the day catching up to him. He lost ground with Tony today, but maybe he can still get somewhere with Steve. 

"Do you want to come in?" he offers. There are no chairs in the room, so he makes space at the end of the bed by pulling his knees to his chest, making himself small to appeal to Steve's dominant instincts. He feels the mattress shift as Steve takes him up on the invitation. "I hope I didn't wake you." 

"I was already up. Are you worrying about tomorrow?"

Bucky thinks about Ebersol's office, the table with the straps, and cruel fingers pinching his bare skin. He shudders. "Wouldn't anyone be nervous before spinal surgery?" he hedges. 

"Dr. Rubio has performed this procedure more times than anyone else in the world; you're in good hands. And Tony and I will be on hand to ensure no one interferes."

"What? Who would interfere?"

"You don't need to worry about it."

"Steve," Bucky says firmly, alarmed at the prospect of his doms keeping secrets. "Does this have anything to do with why you were angry with Agent Hill?"

He thinks he can just make out Steve's form in the darkness, but his dominant's sigh is loud and clear. "She was just the messenger. Fury's notified other agencies of your presence here. SHIELD's still claiming jurisdiction, but there's been pushback."

Breath catching in his chest, Bucky stares blindly in the direction of the dresser where his knives are stowed. They can still run, even with the wires. They've done it before. If things get bad enough, his dominants might even let him go. 

"No one's taking you away. You and your friends are to remain in our custody, and it looks like Fury will be able to hold them off for now. But they've demanded to witness tomorrow's surgeries."

"Creepy," he mutters, because Steve's expecting a response. He meant it jokingly, but the idea of strangers standing over him while he's unconscious makes him shiver.

"Dr. Rubio told you how she'd be recording observations throughout, to be submitted as proof that the collars had been used to control you, right? Usually that's enough in these cases. But Fury's being accused of falsifying evidence; the other agencies are demanding first-hand proof that you were collared."

Bucky grits his teeth. The doctor had, indeed, explained that she'd be looking for scar tissue along the pathways of the wires. All this focus on their collars, on what it means legally to be a submissive in a control collar, and yet the three of them have already explained how pathetically little the collars had to do with their crimes. Rubio and the witnesses will find what they're looking for, but the evidence is already moot after what they disclosed in today's interrogation.

"Are they going to be in the room?" he asks, rubbing his neck. It's been a long time since he was on display; the idea is harder to tolerate than he expected. 

"Absolutely not. SHIELD's added a viewing gallery to the surgical suite. The observers will be behind glass so as not to contaminate the environment. You'll never see them."

Of fucking course. The interrogations will be on hold tomorrow while they undergo surgery, but god forbid they go a day without two-way mirrors.

Bucky grits his teeth against a bitter retort and reminds himself to focus on making progress with Steve. Let them gather their evidence, even if it doesn't mean anything. Complaining won't do any good.

Steve must clue into his agitation, because he blurts, "I'm sorry we can't stop this. I don't want anyone seeing you vulnerable like that, Buck. I'm supposed to protect you from this sort of thing. Fury's interviews are bad enough. For those bullies to demand to see _inside_ you! I wish—"

"It's fine," Bucky makes himself say. "It is what it is. As long as they don't get near us." He should tell Steve he trusts him to protect him. He doesn't say it.

"It's not fine. You've all been through so much. And now this invasion of privacy on top of everything Mentallo did to you! When I think about the control he had over you...."

Bucky winces. The day's interrogation had focused on the methods Mentallo used to control them. They'd spent all day giving examples of times when the collars or telepathy had been used against them, rendering them powerless. His friends hadn't appeared to mind parroting the lawyers' recommended list of words, but it'd been a struggle for Bucky to agree to the characterization. 

Anything would be better than repeating that performance, let alone hearing what Steve thought of it. Swallowing his unease, he resolves to change the topic, to use this private moment to chip away at Steve's defenses and establish physical intimacy with him. 

"I was talking with Tony earlier," he says, putting a sly wink in his voice. "We were talking about the sorts of things you two got up to before...." He gestures at himself, then belatedly realizes Steve probably can't see anything.

The weight at the end of the mattress shifts, and there's an amused hum as Steve allows the diversion. "I can imagine the sorts of things he'd have told you. Whatever it was, the truth isn't half as scandalous as he made it out to be."

"I don't know...he warned me it'd make you blush."

"I'm pretty sure you can't see me. My modesty's safe," Steve retorts, and Bucky can hear his smile.

"He told me to ask about you and Peggy Carter?"

Steve's silent for a moment, but his voice is fond when he says. "Apparently I spoke too soon. What Peggy and I did _was_ scandalous—or would have been had anyone found out."

Hearing his dominant's voice like this, in the dark, fills Bucky with the same nervous thrill he got during every phone call with the Starks. They'd been so generous in sharing the details of their lives that he'd become as addicted to their stories as he was to their voices. He bites his lip and hopes Steve will continue with his tale.

"It wasn't something people spoke of, back then. Some people did it, of course, but only behind closed doors or in special clubs. _Domi-nancies_ , that was the term folks used for dominants who couldn't top a sub on their own, who needed or preferred to have another dom involved. It's less frowned upon nowadays—the _duo dominus_ bond is legally recognized, after all—but it's still considered deviant for doms to go with doms." 

"Yeah," Bucky agrees quietly. It's the same for subs going with subs. Or either dynamic going with a neutral.

"Peggy was...god, what a dominant! I wanted so badly to be like her. I didn't set out to be deviant. But I was...inexperienced. And when Peggy...well, I'd only just gotten this new body. There were submissives throwing themselves at me, and I didn't know how to deal with that, you know? Subs had never really given me the time of day before. But Peggy saw me floundering and...made it easy."

Bucky tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting Steve's voice wash over him, reveling in the luxury of time. He doesn't need to watch a clock or worry about Tony tracing his call. Maybe it's the darkness or the intimacy of the topic, but his heart swells with helpless affection as Steve explains how Peggy would sneak him off Army bases and away from his USO handlers, how she would find an interested submissive and show him the ropes.

It's a fascinating image, and Bucky can't help but ask, "What's it like, doing a scene with another dom? I mean, what's the appeal?"

"It's good. It's like...having a safety net. Someone to stop you if—"

"If you go too far?" Bucky asks with a sinking in his stomach.

"—if you start to get too attached. I've always had a hard time keeping things casual, so having Peggy there was a help."

There's no second dominant in the room to catch Steve right now, just the intimacy of the darkness. Bucky should reach out and seize this opportunity—it might even go well. He might not even have a panic attack.

"I almost kissed Tony today," Bucky says, and then immediately curses himself. What was he thinking, trying jealousy first?

After a long silence, Steve asks, "Did you want to?"

Bucky startles. "Of course I wanted to!" What kind of question was that? He'd been desperate for it, his lips aching for contact. _And his muscles locked with fear_ , a traitorous part of him whispers.

"Then I'm glad." Silence stretches between them. Bucky's just wondering what to do with the sudden uneasiness when Steve adds, "Why didn't you? If you don't mind me asking. I know Tony would be thrilled if you kissed him."

He stammers awkwardly but finally admits, "Bad memory. I panicked."

"That can happen, Bucky. That's one of the reasons why you should take your time."

"I've waited a year! I'm tired of waiting," Bucky says with a calculated whine.

Steve sighs, and Bucky can picture his indulgent smile.

"What about if I kissed you? Would you be thrilled, too?" he asks, pressing his luck outrageously.

"Beyond measure," Steve assures him.

Bucky shifts, tension gathering low in his gut. Now's his chance. Should he crawl forward? Invite Steve to come closer? But the image of Steve looming over him in the darkness turns his blood to ice water.

"Do you want to kiss me?" Steve's voice is so neutral Bucky can't figure out how he's supposed to answer.

He wants Steve, he's sure of it. It's just the thought of trusting him.... He feels Ebersol's metal hands on him, teeth on his throat and a wash of hot breath, and finds himself paralyzed all over again.

"Bucky," Steve prompts in the silence.

His voice is shaky with defeat when he says, "I don't know."

He'd been a fool to start this conversation in the first place. Coming off of that nightmare, there's no way he'd have been in a state to pull this off. And now he's just told his dominant that he doesn't want him! His friends are counting on him, and he's made an unpardonable mistake.

There's no clock in his room, but he'd swear he can hear one ticking.

"Then wait," Steve says, and he sounds so patient, so unsurprised, that Bucky wants to scream at him and throw a punch and break down sobbing in his arms.

Bucky doesn't move.

The bed shifts as Steve stands. "Sleep well, Bucky." The warmth in his voice leaves Bucky flayed wide and bleeding, and he holds his breath to contain his sob until the door closes with a click.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally reaches out.

The buzz of the clippers drowns out all other sound, and Bucky waits for Clint to finish before speaking. The tile floor is hard under his knees, and the edge of the tub is cool where his forehead rests against it. But Clint's hands are warm and strong, and Bucky relaxes under their familiar touch on the nape of his neck.

When Clint trades the electric clippers for the straight razor and gel, Bucky repeats, "I'm going first, Clint. That's final."

Dr. Rubio had called last night to explain her preferred order of surgeries after reviewing their scans. Because Bucky's implants are the most recent, they will be the most straightforward to remove and will give the surgeon a chance to familiarize herself with the idiosyncratic techniques the HYDRA doctors had used. Clint will go second, with Rubio applying what she learns working on Bucky to guide her where the built-up scar tissue obscures the path of the wires.

"I just don't like seeing you put yourself on the line any more than you already have," Clint says, gently bending the topmost wire out of his way. He waits patiently for Bucky to stop shivering at the odd sensation before beginning to shave carefully around Bucky's wires.

Bucky’s doms had also reacted poorly to the doctor's preference, but Bucky'd set his jaw and agreed. He's not eager to be so vulnerable, but if being the first under the knife will help his friends, he'll fight for the privilege.

Now Bucky bites his tongue. It's pointless to argue with Clint when he's being stubborn.

"You're being childish, _solnyshko_ ," Natasha says. "It's already decided."

Clint huffs, but his fingers stroke lightly across sensitized skin, making Bucky's whole body tingle briefly. After a pass with a warm washcloth, he pats Bucky's shoulder to signal that he's done.

Natasha grins at Bucky as he sits up. She reaches over to run her fingers up the newly bare strip on the back of his head, tickling playfully. 

He bats her hand away and then cautiously feels it himself. The bottommost wire is embedded an inch below the hairline, the upper wire a couple inches above. Clint has shaved a narrow swath from the nape of his neck to even with the tips of his ears. The nurses will sterilize the area in the surgical suite, but it'd felt right that he and his friends do this part, this deliberate exposure after so long trying to hide the signs of their captivity, in private. There are small, raised scars around the base of the wires, marks he'd never really dared to explore before this moment. It's odd to feel them now and know they'll soon be changed forever, overwritten by a new surgeon's blade.

"Alright, budge over," Clint grumps, and they all trade places, Bucky moving to sit on the toilet seat, and Clint taking his place leaned over the tub. 

Natasha picks up the clippers and kneels beside Clint, Bucky noting that her hair hides her already shaved strip. When Clint had finished working on her, Bucky'd seen clearly the multiple sets of scars, leftovers from her first collar. They're the reason the doctor wants to operate on her last; HYDRA's surgeons had had to get creative to work around the first set of scars, and Rubio will use everything she saw while operating on Clint and Bucky to determine how best to complete Natasha's surgery.

"I've waited years for my revenge, Barton, and now you're at my mercy. What do you think, hmm? A little off the top? Or a full buzz?" Bucky has rarely heard Tasha so teasing, and he laughs along as Clint flails at her with one arm.

"That's not funny, Nat!"

Eventually they settle down, and Natasha buzzes the same strip that Clint gave both of them. Their uncharacteristic lightheartedness just reminds Bucky of the hostile forces that will observe their surgeries, makes him want to reach out and cover Clint's neck. He doesn't want to ruin their good mood, though, so he double checks that the door is locked as he covers his own marks instead.

"It's going to be fine," Natasha says without looking up from where she's sharpening the razor, because of course she knows what he's thinking. "I won't let anyone touch either of you."

He'd told his friends about the official witnesses first thing this morning, and they'd received the news with impressive stoicism. Bucky's been struggling with the idea himself—the thought of being so exposed makes his skin crawl—but he's been trying to resign himself to it. He wasn't aware Natasha had something up her sleeve. 

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm going last. I'll be able to watch over you."

"You won't be allowed in the room." Even his doms have been barred from the surgical suite. "Besides, it's unnecessary; Steve and Tony will be watching from the gallery."

"Not good enough. No, the doctor is used to working with victims; she won't see me as a threat. And I'll be unarmed," she says with a mischievous smile as the razor flashes in her hand. Bucky immediately understands that she means to put herself in reach of the scalpel tray. "She'll let me in if I beg to be allowed to keep you both in my sight. The Starks can watch the guests, but I'll be watching Carolina. If she tries to hide something in the incisions, or if the nurses try anything hinky, I'll make them wish they were never born."

She's always defended them ferociously. Bucky fights down a surge of emotion. "I'll stand for you," he vows as she bends over Clint's bowed neck. "As soon as I wake up, I'll be there for you."

"Don't I get a say?" Clint mumbles into his forearms.

"Shut up," Natasha says fondly. "I'm trying to work here."

\---

The first thing Bucky notices is how hard it is to breathe, like there's a heavy weight on his chest. He tries to take a deep breath, only to lose it in a fit of coughing because his throat is _on fire_. He flails and tries to roll over onto his back, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.

Steve murmurs something comforting, one large hand making deliciously warm circles across his arm and his back as Bucky brings the coughing under control. "Can you open your eyes now, Buck? We've got ice chips that might help."

Bucky pries his watering eyes open just enough to peer up at Steve and Tony. 

"There are those baby blues," Tony croons. "Here." He holds out a cup.

Bucky blinks and tries to get his bearings. He's on his side in a bed with white sheets. He doesn't recognize the room. Tony's urging the cup toward him, but when he reaches out it's like his hand is a hundred miles from his body. He bumps the paper cup with his fingers but can't seem to get them to close around the vessel. The cup is withdrawn, so he closes his eyes again.

"You're still groggy, huh, sweetheart?"

Bucky grunts vaguely.

"Your surgery went just fine. The wires are all out. You've been a long time waking up."

There's a rattling noise near his ear, and Bucky looks up to find a spoon entering his peripheral vision.

"Ice chips," Steve explains, holding the utensil inhumanly steady. "The doctor said your throat would still be irritated from the breathing tube."

It's awkward accepting the spoon while on his side, but there's a heaviness at the back of his neck that warns him not to move. The ice soothes as he swallows.

"How long?" he whispers, and opens his mouth for another spoonful.

"Since you went in? About four hours," Tony supplies.

Bucky crunches the ice and processes that slowly. "Clint?"

"He's out of surgery already. He's in the bed behind you."

"'M'wake!" comes a peevish call. 

"Apparently he woke much faster than you did."

Clint slurs something indistinct and coughs weakly, evidently still half under.

"Shh, _solnyshko_ ," Natasha says quietly. "Have some ice."

"Tash?" Bucky says, wishing he could roll over and see them.

"I'm here."

"Your surgery. Did I miss...?"

"Not yet. They're still prepping the room for her," Tony says, stroking his brow with a calloused thumb. Bucky's muzzy-headed enough that the gesture's already over before it occurs to him to protest.

"Have to get up," he says instead. He flattens his hand on the mattress but can't seem to muster the strength to move.

"Not so fast, tiger. You're in no condition to be up and about."

"Promised."

Tony continues as though he hadn't spoken, "You're still half asleep. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?"

There's no pain, but he can feel a kind of looming pressure and knows he'll soon be wishing for something strong. Pain is inconsequential though; he'd sworn to Natasha that he'd protect her.

"I'm getting up," he insists.

"You're supposed to be resting," Steve says.

"Promised Tash I'd stand...for her." Breathing is still weirdly difficult, like his ribs are too heavy to move. He thumps a loose fist against his chest. Fuck, he hates anesthesia.

"It's gonna be another couple hours before you're up to _standing_ , Buck, much less standing guard."

"You fucker!" Clint yells hoarsely, and Bucky winces. "Can't fuckin' believe you—"

"Quiet," Natasha tells Clint firmly. "Nobody likes you when you get like this. Just ignore him. He's always angry after anesthesia."

Tony says something in a friendly tone, but Bucky's attention is on the way his dom is rubbing his chest where the arc reactor sits. He's begun to recognize it for the display of weakness it is.

"Tony." When he leans in close, Bucky says, "Help me up."

His dom shakes his head and glances at Steve. "You shouldn't move yet."

"You want to protect Natasha, yes?" Steve asks.

Bucky tries nodding, but freezes when something back there pulls. "Yeah. Promised."

"Can I do it for you?"

He squints at Steve. "But you're not allowed," he says stupidly.

"Just say the word, and I won't let them stop me. Please."

He wishes he could concentrate, but everything's a confused blur. He closes his eyes and groans in frustration.

"I know you don't want me fighting, Buck, and I respect that, but this is important to you. _She's_ important to you."

Bucky's eyelids are like cement blocks. He opens them slowly. Why's Steve talking about fighting?

"Please, darling. Please let me do this for you." Steve's voice cracks, and it's the worst thing that's ever happened to Bucky. He doesn't even know what's going on, just knows that Steve's begging and there's nothing he wouldn't give his dom.

"Steve—"

"Don't you _fucking dare_ , Buck," Clint snarls in a slurring voice. "Can't trust doms!" Natasha shushes him, but Bucky catches something about "...fight our own fights" and "lazy bastard, get up."

Clint's objection gives him pause. Forcing himself to think is like turning over a rusted engine, but he eventually understands. Steve wants to shoulder the responsibility that Bucky's in no shape to manage himself. "Tash?" he calls, needing her permission. When she doesn't respond, he knows she's leaving the decision up to him. 

He reaches out clumsily, and Steve catches his hand. His dom's blue eyes are wide and pleading. And it's easy—more natural than breathing with his still-sleeping lungs, and far simpler than thinking—when he says, "Take good care of her, 'kay? Please? I need her."

His dominant's smile is incandescent. "I won't let you down, I promise. Thank you," he says, bowing his head to press his lips to Bucky's knuckles. "God, thank you."

Steve stands before Bucky can register more than soft and warm, nodding at a point behind Bucky. "Ms. Romanoff?"

From his current position, Bucky can't see her reaction. He can only watch Tony's gaze track their departure.

After the door shuts, Tony turns back to him with soulful, wondering eyes. "You've made him so happy, do you realize?" His hand shakes slightly as he strokes Bucky's face again.

Bucky doesn't have the energy to respond to that. The raw emotion from both his doms is too much, and he still can't catch his breath.

"He's waited his whole life for you. No one's ever—" On the other side of the room, Clint mumbles something resentful, and Tony's expression settles into something calmer but no less adoring. "Go on and get some rest now, love. I'll be right here watching out for you." He takes hold of Bucky's hand even as he adds loudly. "You hear that, Barton? _I'm_ watching over _you_."

Clint makes an indignant squawking sound, and Tony's mouth splits in a fierce grin. 

\---

It's not until hours later, when the anesthesia hangover has lifted and the Percocet has kicked in and begun to wear off, when Bucky finds himself with his fingers stroking through Natasha's hair, that it really hits him. _The wires are finally out._

He skims his fingertips over her brand new bandage and swallows around the lump in his throat. He's never known Clint or Natasha without HYDRA hardware protruding from their skin. But at last the collars are a thing of the past. Never to be forgotten, of course, but no longer present. It's a giant step toward freedom—one that had once seemed as insurmountable as Mentallo's compulsions. And it's thanks to his amazing, generous dominants that they've come this far.

"Quit it," Natasha grumbles, but she doesn't so much as twitch where she's lying with her cheek on Bucky's thigh. Bucky smiles past the surge of emotion and leaves the gauze alone, going back to petting her hair.

"Smoothies are up, who wants?" Tony calls from the kitchen.

"If I have to drink another meal I'm going to vomit," Natasha groans.

"Nothing for Nat!" Bucky answers loudly.

The doctor hasn't limited them to a liquid diet; they're cleared to chew food and even turn their heads a few centimeters. But none of them have wanted to risk it, least of all his doms, who seem determined to coddle them all into health.

Tony's footsteps approach the couches where Bucky and his friends have been napping the evening away. 

"Thanks," Bucky says as he takes the glass from his dom, ignoring Natasha's muttered complaint at the loss of his touch. His muscles are still deceptively lax, so he concentrates on gripping the glass tightly and remains reclined. The back of the couch is high and cushioned, and Steve had carefully propped him up with an enormous pillow. 

Tony crouches beside Natasha. "Would the little lady like something hot? Chicken soup? I'd try my hand at borscht, but we’re fresh out of beets and sour cream."

"There's not enough sour cream in the city for me to risk your pathetic attempt at borscht, Stark."

 _No borscht_ , Bucky mouths at Tony. He yelps when Natasha pinches his calf.

Tony winks at him and carries the other glass over to where Clint is propped up on his side on another sofa. "Thanks," Clint mutters without meeting Tony's eyes.

"You okay there, kid? Stomach alright on those pills?"

"I'm fine."

"Let me know if you need a basin or another blanket or anything, okay?"

Clint shrugs one shoulder and doesn't look up.

"Tony, you're hovering," Steve observes from the third couch.

Bucky shoots him a grateful glance. Tony's been flitting about like a kid at Christmas ever since they were moved upstairs, and it's exhausting in their current states. 

"What, like you're not watching them like a hawk?"

"I'm hovering from a distance. You're worse than my mother ever was."

"Well, if you're going to play the 'Mom' card—"

Bucky settles deeper into the couch and sips his smoothie, happy to watch them squabble. He hasn't gotten to see Tony and Steve together much except during mealtimes, and those have become strained, grim affairs. Despite his fears this morning, the whole day has been a welcome reprieve from SHIELD's intrusive questioning. His dominants' good-natured bickering already feels familiar, and he catches himself thinking he wouldn't mind spending years in their company. And with the wires out, the thought isn't so egregiously farfetched.

_"Sirs, please pardon the interruption. You asked to be alerted if certain topics received public attention."_

"What's going on, J?"

_"A national news outlet is reporting a leak of classified information. I've sent the footage to sir's tablet."_

"It's about us, isn't it?" Clint demands.

When the Starks don't answer, Bucky says, "I think we deserve to know what's happening. Jarvis, can you play it out here?"

Tony leaps from his seat, arms wrapped around his chest, but he doesn't protest as the projection screen lowers in front of the dark windows. 

A news program cuts in midstream. _"—that we've received word that HYDRA's Three, terrorists wanted for multiple acts of violence—including the nightmarish bombing of last year's UN Peace Summit in Paris—are currently being sheltered in Stark Tower in Manhattan by none other than Tony Stark. Mr. Stark and his husband, Captain Steven Stark, aka Captain America, have been absent from the Avengers for the past year; is it possible they have switched sides? Are these former superheroes harboring terrorists? For more on this story, we—"_

"That's enough," Tony snaps, and the screen goes dark. "Fuck," he snarls, pacing in and out of Bucky's line of sight. His shoulders have gone tight and hunched, all traces of his earlier exuberance gone. "I'll have Jarvis ferret out the source. If it was one of the nurses, I'll hit them with so many lawsuits—."

"It was one of the witnesses," Steve says quietly, elbows braced on his knees. His smiling demeanor has been replaced with a set jaw and clenched fists. "Or from their organizations, anyway. Fury put the word out to other agencies, and someone had loose lips. Not a lot to be done in that case." 

Natasha scratches behind Bucky's knee, and he belatedly realizes he's been holding himself as stiff as his doms. 

"What happens now?" he asks.

"We stay put. They can't get access to the Tower. This doesn't change anything," Steve says.

"This changes everything. There's not much time now—"

"Tony, you said yourself it'd take more hardware than would ever be approved for them to get to us here. This is still the safest place for them."

Tony exhales sharply and spins on his heel. "I have to get back to work."

Bucky looks at Steve wildly as Tony heads toward the stairwell. He cranes his head to follow his progress but freezes when the stitches pull in protest. He can't believe his dom is just leaving. 

"Tony, not today. You promised." When his husband doesn't respond, Steve adds in a resigned tone, "Jarvis, make sure he gets some rest tonight."

The click of a door punctuates Tony's departure, and Bucky grinds his teeth in frustration.

"So this is going well," Clint snarks, but there's a current of anxiety in his voice. "Great time to be drugged to the gills. Thanks for that."

"It'll all be fine, you have my word," Steve assures them. Bucky doesn't know how his dominant can still be sitting; the urge to run and hide is overpowering. Only Natasha's weight in his lap—and the heaviness of the drugs—is keeping him in place. "We'll proceed with business as usual. Director Fury will let us know if the political climate changes."

Clint's having none of his platitudes. "They know where we are! They want our blood!"

"But they can't have it. I promised you all a safe haven, and that's what this is. You have time to heal and to tell your stories. No one's taking you away."

Bucky interrupts when his friend starts to protest again. "Clint! Just leave it. We agreed to trust them, remember?" He fakes a reassuring expression, though his insides are twisted in knots. Steve's answering smile does little to calm his fears.

"Well, we're certainly all awake _now_ ," Natasha grumps. "Put something on the television, at least."

Bucky gingerly tips his head down to study her. She's still completely relaxed, and he wonders what to make of her apparent acceptance of his dominants' divided response to the threat. Deciding to trust her instincts, he takes a deep breath and focuses on at least appearing at ease.

Steve gestures to the screen, his own hands finally unclenched. "What do you all want to watch?"

"Just not the news!" Bucky says before anyone else can express an opinion.

Natasha doesn't make any suggestions, and after a long silence Clint gives a quiet huff. "If we're expected to trust Captain America here, maybe we ought to know a little more about the man. It's only fair right? Jarvis, do you have that cable movie from the 90s about Captain America?"

Steve winces even as Jarvis says, _"I believe I do, Mr. Barton. 1992,_ Captain America and the Third Reich _."_

"Perfect," Clint says with a mean-spirited smile.

Bucky darts a worried glance at Steve. "We don't have to watch that." He cuts himself off before offering an explanation: Clint's been in a terrible mood since coming out of surgery, and he's always an asshole when he's scared.

But Steve just waves a hand in surrender and says, "Go ahead, Jarvis."

The overhead lights dim as the movie begins, and Bucky feels a nearly Pavlovian calm settle into his bones.

He vaguely remembers the film from American History class. His strongest memory is of the gaudy spandex and intense close ups that lovingly caressed Captain America's impressive physique. That, and falling asleep on his desk. Watching it now, he's torn between laughing at the poor effects and even worse acting, and taking offense at the outdated, patronizing attitude toward submissives. 

On screen, the valiant captain is pulling civilians out of the line of fire, and Bucky looks away. If he has to watch one more grateful sub collapse in the heroic dominant's arms, he's going to scream.

So he's surprised to see that Clint's eyes are squeezed shut, his hands white-knuckled around the folds of a blanket.

"Stop the movie," Bucky blurts. He doesn't know what's wrong, but something's upset Clint.

"Lights!" Steve calls. The room brightens immediately as the screen goes blank.

Bucky blinks until his eyes adjust. When he looks up, Steve is watching him with concern. 

"Is everything alright?"

"It's fine, sorry. It was just putting me to sleep," he lies. He doesn't risk a glance at Clint.

Natasha's betrayal is unexpected. "Nonsense. You just didn't like watching subs throw themselves at Captain America."

Steve snorts. When Bucky looks his way, his dom appears surprised with his own outburst.

"Steve?"

He shrugs awkwardly, and then says, "It's a terrible movie. And aside from some of the names and a couple places, it gets everything wrong. Especially the subs."

"How so?" Natasha prompts.

Steve looks down, and Bucky takes the opportunity to check on Clint. His friend is watching Steve with alarming intensity.

"The dynamics are all wrong," Steve finally admits. "Subs weren't like that in my day. They weren't damsels in distress who wanted a dominant to save them."

"What, you didn't get your ass kicked trying to protect subs from bullies?" Clint taunts, referring to the opening montage of Steve Rogers—in oversized clothing to conceal the actor's muscles—being beaten up in alleyways.

Steve flushes and looks away, then squares his shoulders. "Oh, I did. All the time. But none of them wanted me to, and they weren't in any hurry to thank me after. More often than not they took off while I was getting my face mashed into the concrete. At least they were away from the doms that were bothering them, though. That was what mattered."

Bucky's heart thumps hard at the way Steve's proud and ashamed at the same time. Remembering what Steve had said last night, that subs hadn't been interested in him before his transformation, Bucky tries to picture him much smaller, overlooked and unwanted, putting himself in harm's way to protect anonymous subs, undeterred by their lack of regard. The fleeting jealousy evaporates, leaving him fiercely glad none of them had been able to appreciate Steve like he can.

Swallowing, he tries to lighten the mood. "Nice dominant like you, I'm lucky none of them swept you off your feet."

"You tryin' to say you never got with a sub?" Clint demands disbelievingly.

"The submissives at the state clinic were nice enough to me," Steve offers. His mild tone is belied by his stiff posture and persistent blush.

"Well, shit," Clint exclaims rudely, and Bucky shoots him a glare. He's well aware of the contempt Clint holds for subs who resort to clinics to meet their needs; the twisted dominants who've preyed on him all his life have left him with skewed prejudices.

The state clinics were established in the 1930s as part of the New Deal, the government finally acknowledging that the social upheavals of the Great Depression had left many dominants and submissives without the tight-knit communities that traditionally would have supported them. Since their founding, the clinics have been an important resource for individuals with dynamic needs as well as providers of basic dynamic education for pubescents without a support structure. 

It's a surprise to realize that Steve had actually needed to go to such lengths. Bucky doesn't condemn the clinics, himself, but he doesn't care for them either. That doesn't mean Clint should be allowed to mock him, however, and Bucky finds himself intensely missing Tony, who would have deflected the situation easily.

Tony's not here, though, so Bucky rallies, determined to protect Steve from Clint's callousness.

"I found most of the state doms were too rigid," he offers with forced casualness. In his peripheral vision, Clint startles. "It took a few visits to find one willing to teach me what I needed to learn." The majority of dominants he'd encountered at the clinics had been strictly traditional. He'd had to argue long and hard before one would teach him how to protect parts of himself in a drop.

"Buck, you never said—"

"It was when I was young. Still at the orphanage."

"You didn't have anybody to—?"

"Nobody I could trust, Clint," he says quellingly, and stares his friend down. Clint gives him a baffled look, then ducks his head. Bucky's trying to think what to say to him, whether he should apologize—he hadn't meant any criticism, but he really should have addressed Clint's prejudices earlier—when Steve responds.

"Yeah, the clinic subs were.... They were sweet, of course." Bucky flinches despite himself. Has he read Steve wrong all this time? "But it was just a job for them, and it was hard knowing they weren't mine to take care of, not even a little bit."

Natasha makes a disgusted noise. "State clinic stories. Boring."

"Hey, some of us are interested," Clint exclaims.

"That's because you're easily distracted," she chides. "I want to know what the Captain isn't telling us. What else is wrong with the dynamics in that movie?"

She's always been too perceptive by half, and Bucky casts about for something to say to distract her. Steve's relationship with the dominant Peggy Carter is private.

But Steve exhales and says, "There was a submissive in the Invaders. Masquerading as a neutral, of course." Natasha nods against Bucky's thigh in understanding. Militaries around the world have only recently lifted their bans on submissives serving; the practice of subs disguising themselves is nothing new. "He would've been outraged over that portrayal of subs."

Now that he mentions it, Bucky remembers Steve confessing something about the young man in one of their phone calls. Apparently Steve had been called upon to meet the sub's needs; he'd called it the greatest privilege he'd ever known. It'd made Bucky long for him dreadfully at the time, but now he can picture it, and he chokes on another swell of jealousy.

"So he never threw himself into your arms?" he hears himself demand.

Steve holds his eyes and says, "He wasn't mine, Bucky. I gave what he needed, and I was grateful to be of use, but he wasn't interested in anything more."

It's Bucky's turn to look away, ashamed of his accusation. He stews in embarrassment for a long time, only vaguely aware of Steve proposing a comedy and the new film starting. When Natasha shifts in his lap, he absently runs his fingers through her hair. His euphoria at the absence of the collars feels so long ago; he's unsettled thinking about Steve's words, the pained smile his dominant had worn throughout his confession. He wishes he were alone in the dark with him right now so he could ask for more of his story.

He can vividly recall the trepidation he'd felt the first time he entered a clinic, how the very size of the building had made him aware of his youth and vulnerability. He imagines a version of Steve much smaller than his current form, someone physically weak enough to be disdained by subs, and his heart flips painfully. Instead of picturing him in the alleyways of the film, he can all too easily see the smaller Steve grabbing a scalpel in his bony fingers and standing guard over Natasha just because it's the right thing to do.

When Bucky finally looks over, he finds his dominant's eyes already on him, dark and mysterious in the flickering light of the screen. He meets Steve's gaze gravely, unwilling to trivialize his dom's revelations with a fake smile or awkward laugh. Steve had _begged_ for the right to protect Natasha. He'd called it an honor to take care of a submissive in the war. He'd nearly gotten himself killed this past year trying to avenge Bucky. And he hasn't asked for anything in return.

Nat had called Bucky a protector the other day, but she had it wrong. Steve has clearly spent his life protecting others, a generosity that humbles Bucky.

Tony'd started to say something before, when Bucky had trusted Steve with Tasha's safety. If he's really waited his whole life for a sub to trust him like that, Bucky's beyond grateful for the chance to be the first to understand this side of him. Steve's never had a submissive to call his own before, and Bucky's always had to fight his own battles. But now they have each other, and Bucky doesn't ever want to let him go.

Inhaling shakily, Bucky blinks sudden moisture from his eyes. He aches to cross the room and lay his head in his dominant's lap, but Natasha has gone still as though sleeping, and he doesn't dare disturb her. He settles for holding Steve's gaze and nodding fractionally, thinking _Yours_ as loudly as he can, hoping that Steve can read it in his eyes.

His dom's unreadable expression doesn't change, but he must have understood some part of Bucky's message because, after a long moment, Steve rises silently and circles the room, passing behind Clint's sofa and out of view. 

Bucky can feel the heat of Steve's skin as he comes to stand behind him. Unable to resist, he reaches up with painful slowness. His breath escapes in a rush as Steve's hand meets his, their fingers intertwining tightly. His dom's skin is unexpectedly hot, and Bucky pulls Steve's hand closer, tilting his head slightly to rub his cheek across his dominant's knuckles. The bond sparkles at the points of contact, and Bucky closes his eyes thinking _Yours_ over and over, fervently wishing that the line of Steve's caress would leave a permanent mark.

Gradually he realizes that Steve's grip has relaxed, and he lets his own hand drop to his side, relieved when Steve doesn't pull away. Instead, those strong fingers move to stroke his hair, and Bucky shivers and tilts his head back into the cushions, welcoming the carefully exploring touch. It feels like minutes pass in breathless silence, the sounds of the movie muted as though far away, as those long digits comb through his overlong hair, leaving trails of warmth across his scalp.

Eventually Steve's exploration moves lower, barely whispering along the edge of the bandage, and Bucky tips his head forward to give his dominant better access, suddenly desperate for Steve's touch on his vulnerable, shaved skin. But Steve bypasses the area and rests his hand on Bucky's shoulder instead, broad fingers flexing oh so gently in tentative possession.

Bucky stifles a gasp as his heart lurches in response, his thoughts a welter of delight and desperation at Steve's claim, his very blood begging to be kept forever.

Steve squeezes his shoulder more firmly, a solid anchor grounding him, and Bucky pushes up into the touch for a minute, reveling in the possession. The edge of Steve's thumb brushes the nape of Bucky's neck, just below the bandage, sending minute tremors through his whole body.

"Shh," he hears, the words barely breathed in the dim room. "Shh, I've got you. I've got you."

Bucky lets his head loll heavily, and the strain on his stitches is negligible compared to how good, how safe it feels to relax completely in his dominant's grip.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the pressure mounting, Bucky tries harder to win over one of his dominants.

The welcome peace is shattered the next morning, when his doms accept a video conference from Pepper Potts in the main room.

At her prompting, Jarvis switches the display from her to a local news feed: footage of a couple dozen protesters with homemade signs and megaphones harassing office workers attempting to enter Stark Tower. Their signs aren't particularly clever—generic calls for justice and vengeance—but to be fair, the demonstrators haven't had long to customize their protest. After a minute the visual switches back to a feed of Ms. Potts in her office many floors below.

_\- "There aren't many of them yet, but as that rumor gains momentum we can expect hundreds more to join them. If we don't get ahead of this, we may have to close the building tomorrow." -_

"Security's keeping them outside?" Steve asks.

Bucky blinks incredulously at Steve's calm demeanor. His own heart is racing with dread over this proof that their presence hasn't gone unnoticed.

_\- "They're not a problem so far. But once their numbers grow and the news crews move closer, they'll get bolder. We're going to have to seal the front doors eventually." -_

Steve nods. "We knew this was a risk." 

Ms. Potts replies acidly, _\- "Yes we did, Captain. In fact, we set up a countermeasure for this very possibility. But for some reason you've opted not to use it." -_

"Pepper, I explained to you—"

She ignores Steve's protest and turns her attention to Bucky's other dom, who's gone pale and uncharacteristically still since the call started. _\- "Tony, talk to me. What's going on up there? It's been nearly a week. We need to release a statement and get ahead of this story, or all our preparations are for nothing." -_

Tony waves his hand peremptorily. "Have you got Legal started on those forms I sent you?"

She blanches visibly. _\- "It's not going to come to that, Tony. If you'll just—" -_

"Just do it, Pepper," he snaps, angrier than Bucky's seen him since the showdown with Director Fury.

"Tony?" Bucky asks tentatively.

Tony's eyes flick to Bucky, then shut briefly. "I'm going to my lab," he says, and turns away.

"We're due downstairs in a few minutes, babe," Steve reminds him, and Tony freezes in place, shoulders hunched and hands clenching.

 _\- "What the hell is going on up there?" -_ Ms. Potts repeats, bewildered.

"Everything's fine," Steve says, but his eyes are boring into Bucky's as though pleading with him to believe him. "Call in whatever extra security you need. We'll let you know if anything changes."

_\- "Steve, have you thought this through?" -_

"Jarvis." Steve makes a slicing motion with his hand, and the call cuts off.

Bucky stares at the blank screen and focuses on staying calm. He trusts Steve. Yesterday he'd been _so sure_ he could trust him. Steve wants Bucky badly, and he'd never do anything to put submissives at risk. But what game is he playing now?

Despite what he tells himself, he can't shake the sense of foreboding.

\---

"How did you come to be a prisoner of HYDRA?" There's a slight emphasis on the word _prisoner_ , as though the agent believes that granting Clint even that much victimhood is questionable. 

Whether because he caught the slight or is simply agitated by the topic, Clint leans forward in his chair to glare at Pandit. "The United States Army fucking abandoned me. That's how."

"You were lost on an op in Kufra," Pandit prompts blandly. "The mission wasn't completed. What went wrong?"

"'Bad intel,' Ames said. But those bastards knew we were coming."

"Your handler reported that you abandoned your position."

"The fucker _would_ say that, wouldn't he? Like it's my fault the perch was compromised before I even got there? They were _waiting_ for me. I barely got out at all, let alone with the bullet holes they left in me."

"You're saying First Lieutenant Ames planned what happened?"

Clint sits back, shaking his head. "Fuck if I know. But when I was bleeding out in that shitty-ass desert, calling for backup, he straight up told me I was an _expendable asset_. Bastard couldn't hang up the comms fast enough for his taste."

The agent glances unnecessarily at the file, then reports neutrally, "Lieutenant Ames reported you Killed In Action. There was no search made."

"Fuck," Clint breathes, and it hurts to watch the fight drain out of him.

"How did you survive your wounds?"

"How many of my kills were sanctioned?" Clint blurts instead of answering the question, his knee bouncing agitatedly. "Including the top secret ones. How many kills are in that file?"

Pandit double checks the summary sheet and reports, "15 missions, 21 confirmed kills between 2006 and 2007."

Clint's face twists with some complicated series of emotions, and Bucky's heart wrenches in sympathy.

Ames was hardly the first dominant to manipulate Clint, but his betrayal had cut the deepest. Back in the early days, Clint had admitted his fears to Bucky—that Mentallo's accusations were true, that he'd been used by the handler he trusted to commit murders that weren't ordered by his government. That he'd been bad even before HYDRA got their hands on him. Judging by Clint's slumped shoulders and hollowed out gaze, the psychic had been correct. 

When Clint doesn't verbally respond, Pandit repeats, "How did you survive your wounds, Specialist?"

"Mentallo found me. I dunno how; I was pretty delirious by that point. Must've passed out, and when I came to I was all patched up and sporting a new bit of hardware." He touches his bare throat and smiles faintly. Bucky's thankful that at least the surgeries are already finished, turning a no-doubt horrifying memory into one of eventual triumph over his captors.

"And how long before you started killing for HYDRA?"

Clint's smile goes wide. "Couple weeks. He put a pistol in my hand and ordered me to kill a man."

"And you followed his orders?"

"Well, first I tried to shoot Mentallo. I found out fast that wasn't an option. And the target was a HYDRA officer who'd taken too much initiative trying to prove himself to the higher ups. I think he killed some nuns. Who wouldn't take that shot?"

Bucky hides a worried frown. He's glad to see Clint becoming animated again, but his trademark sass will do more harm than good in this situation.

"Did it occur to you to not kill the man?"

Clint smiles toothily.

Bucky wants to shake him but bites his tongue.

"Did you ever try to resist Mentallo's orders?"

"Oh sure, I _tried_. But he had a way of showing you your place. You didn't fight back and win," Clint says, his smile slipping.

Pandit leans forward, the first sign of interest he's made all morning. "Tell me more. How did he show you your place?"

"Look, we already talked about the mind control," Clint snaps defensively, but there's horror beneath the irritation when he expounds, "Fucker could _make_ you do what he wanted. Do you know what it's like not having control of your own body?"

"Like he said, we already told you what the compulsions were like. When Mentallo gave orders, we didn't resist," Bucky says quickly, anxious to distract the agent before he pursues this line of inquiry. If he lives a hundred years, he still couldn't bear to hear Clint tell the story again, let alone see it dragged out of him under these circumstances. "Clint didn't want to kill for HYDRA, but he was forced to."

"As I understand it, Sergeant Barnes, you weren't there for the events in question. Were you?" Pandit's dark eyes are stern. When Bucky reluctantly falls silent, he continues, "Then I'll thank you to restrict your answers to only those events you were present to witness or perpetrated yourself."

"Anyway, after the HYDRA officer it was a string of assassinations, mostly lower-level politicians. You want the names?" Clint's tone is deceptively cheerful, showing no sign of his earlier distress.

Pandit takes him up on the offer, and Bucky clenches his hand in a fist below the table as Clint flippantly rattles off names, dates, and coordinates. He's familiar with his friend's coping mechanisms, but that doesn't help when Clint jokes that Mentallo was a better handler than Ames.

"Oh, he was a bastard, no doubt. But he let me use my bow, which Ames never did, and he didn't micromanage. He let me pick my own perch, do my own recon. I mean, everything about him was shit, but it's nice having a boss who listens to your input, you know?"

Pandit's lip curls in evident distaste, and Bucky's pulse picks up. _Fuck, Clint._

\---

"Kirill Ranskahov, who did some work for the Red Room back in the day, recognized me in Fukuoka," Natasha reports emotionlessly. "He was working with a crew of slavers at the time, and they got the drop on me. Two days later I'd already been sold to Mentallo. I woke up with a collar and was given my first mission almost immediately."

"And did you do it?"

"Yes."

"And did you attempt to resist?"

"No."

Pandit cocks his head. "Now that's very interesting, _Agentka_ Romanova."

"Don't play ignorant," Natasha replies firmly. "Why don't you read us what you have in that file?"

He blinks and pauses.

"Go on. What does it say on that top sheet there? 'Ages 13 to 18....'"

Pandit shifts the file closer to himself and clears his throat. "Ages 13 to 18, Red Room operative training. 19 to 21, KSB operative, more than a dozen recorded kills. Ages 22 to 25, freelance contract killings under the alias Black Widow.' And then you dropped off the grid," he finishes, closing the folder.

She nods. "I'd been an assassin for half my life by the time HYDRA got their collar on me. And most of that time was spent wearing the Red Room's collar. I knew two things, Agent: death and orders. I had no nation to remain loyal to, let alone a code of honor. Mentallo wanted to call himself my new master, and he had the collar and compulsions to enforce his will. I wasn't fool enough to fight him. He ordered me to kill, and that's what I did."

Clint is watching her with shining eyes and a proud smile, but Bucky feels suffocated. Natasha's calculating manner comes across even less sympathetically than Clint’s. Her bald recital of facts doesn't do justice to the woman he knows, the one who loved and protected them both so ferociously, who mourned alongside them as they followed increasingly horrific orders. She's pulling the noose around her own neck, and Bucky can't let her do it.

"She was given orders just like the rest of us. She never wanted to carry them out—"

"Sergeant, I thought we had an understanding," Pandit says. "I will have you removed from the room if you can't keep silent."

"Be quiet, James," she says sternly. "When I escaped my FSB handlers, I killed for money because that's what I knew how to do. And if I'd been offered cash to kill HYDRA's targets, I probably would have taken those jobs. Some of them, anyway," she adds in a slightly unsteady tone, showing a welcome crack in her hard mask. "But the fact of the matter, Agent, is that I wasn't paid. I was a slave. And some of those people, some of those missions, I would not have accepted if I'd had a choice."

She pauses to smile fondly at both of them, and Bucky hopes she picks up on the desperate warning in his gaze. "Not to mention, I'd never worked as part of a team before. My work before HYDRA was always single targets. I'd never attempted anything on the scale I pulled off with Barton, and then with him and Barnes." 

Pandit crosses his arms, apparently unimpressed with her unsentimental testimony. "Tell me about HYDRA's targets. What sorts of missions did you and Barton carry out together?"

\---

They spend all morning discussing the crimes that his friends committed in the years before his own unforgivably reckless scheme sent him face-planting into HYDRA's clutches. Dozens of assassinations and bombings, thefts and arson, each recounting more remorseless than the last, and Bucky powerless to defend them from Pandit’s narrowing gaze. By the time they're dismissed, Bucky feels wrung out, like he's been on high alert for days instead of hours. 

Steve accompanies them back upstairs and feeds them a hearty lunch, filling in the awkward silences with stories about Brooklyn in the old days. Clint seems interested in the tales, and even Natasha offers a sly observation or two. Steve appears just as at ease with them as always, but today his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

Bucky's too keyed up to engage in pleasantries, and spends the meal worrying over the way his friends' unsympathetic testimony has surely changed how his doms—and SHIELD—perceive them. Is that why Tony's gone back to his lab rather than eat with them? And no doubt the crowd of protesters outside the Tower has grown. How long before their cries for retribution outweigh whatever reasons SHIELD has for granting this temporary reprieve? How much pressure can his dominants withstand before they'll trade Clint and Natasha as bargaining chips to keep him?

Steve is polite as ever when he declines their offers of assistance in clearing the table. But Bucky spots the way his gaze constantly returns to Bucky's friends as though he's afraid to take his eyes off them for more than a few seconds at a time. 

"What do you say we all head down to the gym?" Steve asks out of nowhere. He's turned to face them, hands at his sides and head cocked in careful observation of Clint and Natasha, and Bucky just stares, confused and suspicious. "The way I see it, this morning couldn't have been fun for any of you. If you have any frustration you want to work out, I'm sure Pepper and Jarvis would prefer we do it somewhere without furniture."

Bucky can't imagine what's running through his dom's head. Yes, Steve had been eager to defend Natasha yesterday, but he'd do that for any vulnerable submissive. He can't possibly mistake Bucky's friends for helpless victims after this morning. Not after their harrowing admissions, and especially not with Natasha still partially wearing the hard mask she'd donned for the agent.

Natasha and Clint look just as confused by the invitation, and Steve smiles in that new, odd way that doesn't reach his eyes. "Come on, Barton. I think we have a crossbow in the armory. Did you see there's a shooting range?"

Clint gasps, eyes going wide, and Bucky sees red.

Faster than thought, he advances into Steve's space. "How dare you?" he demands. "What is this, some kind of test for SHIELD? They want to see what he can do?" It's a suspicion he hadn't even realized he's been fostering until he's saying it, but suddenly a number of things make more sense. Why else would the Director of SHIELD allow them this illusion of freedom—just enough to hang themselves with. And hadn't Steve been spying on his friends in the gym?

"I didn't mean anything by it," Steve says, taking a wary step back. 

Bucky stays right in his face. "They're not going to be subs in SHIELD's arsenal. You tell Director Fury he can't have them. They're going to be free to never—" 

"Jesus Christ, Buck, what the hell's got into you?" Clint demands, shoving Bucky away and putting himself between him and his dom. 

Bucky puffs his chest up to continue arguing, but when he looks at Steve, whose lips are pressed together, turned down at the corners in what looks like genuine hurt, he deflates immediately.

"You need to chill the fuck out. I'm hitting the range with the Captain. C'mon, Nat," Clint says, and heads in the direction of the elevator.

Bucky averts his gaze from Steve's wounded expression, horrified by his own behavior. For a moment there he'd been so sure that he finally understood Steve's motives for delaying the bond and risking their freedom. But maybe Steve was merely being kind, maybe he needed to be attentive to two submissives who'd just detailed histories of being used against their will.

Dammit, he was doing so well with Steve yesterday, but today he's lashed out and chased him away again. He can't keep acting so unstable in front of his doms, or they'll finally decide he's not worth the considerable risk to their reputations. 

He rubs at his pounding temple. His whole head aches from trying not to disturb the tender stitches in his neck all morning, and he's been looking forward to another dose of acetaminophen, insufficient though it may be.

He needs to fix this; he needs things settled with his doms _now_ —before he ruins it all. But if the past week's taught him one thing, it's that there's no way he can do it alone. He needs help.

"Tasha, wait. I need to talk with you," he calls, and the group turns to face him.

Steve's a couple dozen feet away, but Bucky'd swear his eyes narrow. Still, Steve nods at Natasha and then Bucky and says, "Barton and I will be downstairs. Feel free to join us if you feel like it."

Bucky ignores Natasha's frown and looks around the vast main room. It appears empty but doesn't feel secure, so he gestures for her to follow him to his bedroom. 

"I'm messing everything up," he confesses once the door is shut, and she nods, unsurprised.

"You need to get yourself under control. I've never seen you so erratic."

"I don't know what I'm doing. Maybe it's the bond? I feel like I'm going crazy trying to figure them out."

"They're no more complicated than any dom. It just needs a little courage, _lapushka_. If you tell them the truth—"

He talks over her, unwilling to listen to that particular advice. He knows she's not bothered by what he did, but his doms are _good_ men; there's a line, and they can't ever learn that he's crossed it. "They keep postponing bonding, and I don't know how to change their minds. Time's running out, Tash. Please, I need you to tell me what to do. How do I make them do what we need?" 

She actually recoils half a step, staring at him with round eyes for a moment before schooling her features into an unreadable mask. "I don't know what you mean," she says, obviously lying. Before Bucky can respond, she continues firmly, "Because I know you're not talking about selling yourself to them to secure our freedom. I _know_ that's not what you mean, because you promised me you weren't going to do that anymore."

"You saw the news this morning! We won't be safe here much longer—" Bucky changes tactics when the line of her mouth goes thin. "Look, I'm not compromising myself. I want them. I do! But I don't know how to convince them of it! Every time I've asked, they've put me off with patronizing talk about waiting. They won't trust me to know my own mind."

"Well, consider what you've been through, hmm? Look at yourself, James. You're a poster child for mind control and coercion. You don't even like them touching you half the time, yet you keep pushing for it. Maybe they're not wrong." Her words are aimed to cut, and they hit their targets with their usual precision.

But he can't afford to back down, and he presses his point despite her growing hostility. "I know you know how to do it, Nat. You can read anybody. You know what makes people tick and how to play them. Hell, I'm sure you know how to manipulate Clint and me—" 

He doesn't see the blow coming, and it's hard enough to rock his head to the side and spike his headache. He rubs his stinging cheek, grateful that she chose to slap him rather than leave a bruise.

"How dare you," she snarls, but her eyes are incongruously wide with horror again, and now Bucky can see the deeper well of hurt she always hides. 

His stomach lurches in regret.

She strides past him, arms crossed over her chest in uncharacteristic defensiveness. "You, of all people, don't need advice on how to manipulate those closest to you. You've already had plenty of practice; you've been manipulating Clint for years."

Bucky begs to differ. He's spent the last few years teaching Clint to be stronger, to stand up for himself against predatory dominants. He's certainly never used Clint's vulnerabilities against him. But Natasha continues before he can voice that objection.

"You made a neat job of me this past year, too. A bit heavy handed, perhaps, but you found the perfect pressure point. It was months before I realized how you'd played me." 

Bucky feels his unmarked cheek flush to match the other, and he studies the doorknob intently rather than turn and meet her eyes. 

"All those private moments, those whispered admissions of fear. _What if I lose myself in the bond?_ , you asked me over and over again. _They'll make me forget._ And you watched every time to see if the words hurt me enough to get your way." She's circling him now, and he knows she's watching him flinch as her verbal blows land. "You knew what those bastards did to me. You knew my greatest fear, and you took advantage of it for an entire year."

There's a rarely heard throb in her voice when she adds, "I killed for you, James. I _lived_ for you. But you chose to play me like a mark and destroy years of trust. That's what manipulation gets you; you become a monster yourself. So think long and hard before you take that step with your dominants. You won't like what you become."

She slams the door on her way out, and Bucky stays frozen in place, throat locked tight with guilt.

He can't deny her accusations. He knows there are entire years of her childhood she has no memory of thanks to the brain-wiping techniques of the Red Room—he knew exactly what he was doing when he invoked Natasha's fears of mind control. It'd been simple to couch descriptions of the true-pair bond in terms of loss of self to keep her from realizing how he longed for the Starks. 

He'd known his words were hurting her.

But he'd done it anyway, because it hadn't been a total lie; he's legitimately frightened by the urges the bond gives him. His whole life, he's never desired to submit completely to a dominant, but the bond makes him want to disappear into them and trust them with his entire self. He's still alarmed by the depth of his submission on the Quinjet. He's been telling himself that he'd been in the middle of a panic attack when it happened, and that's why he forgot to take precautions to hold part of himself back during the drop, but he can't be sure it won't be like that the next time—every time. 

The bond gives them an unfair advantage over him, amplifying his susceptibility to their dominance. He’s not sure they even realize how many times they’ve had him half under with just a possessive touch, the incomplete bond all too eager to cut his legs out from under him. If he gives in before he wins them over, he'll find himself dropping for doms who still have no intention to bond with him.

It's no wonder he's of two minds about the bond, about his dominants' touch. He's spent the last week aching for them to seize him, but he's recoiled from the reality more than once. Steve's caresses last night had only been so welcome because the public setting eliminated any risk that he'd press his claim further than a chaste touch.

The fact that the bond is inevitable—a biological imperative the three of them can only deny for so long—is a terrifying prospect. Sooner or later, he's going to belong to them.

Rubbing the last of the sting from his cheek, he shakes off his self-pity. So what if he's afraid? It doesn't matter that he's not sure he wants it; if Natasha's rebuke taught him anything, it was a reminder of what he owes his friends. They've both suffered more than enough for one lifetime—including at his hands.

Now there's a crowd of civilians screaming for their blood. And Clint and Nat have confessed to a laundry list of crimes, the consequences of which he can't protect them from. Bucky just attacked Steve without provocation, and Tony's vanished altogether. It's already been two days since Agent Hill threatened that SHIELD won't be able to protect them much longer.

He has to act, and he has to do it now. Ms. Potts strongly implied that a press conference is the next step in protecting them all, and the lawyers said they'd have to be fully bonded before greeting the public, or a dynamic-sensitive reporter would sniff out their deception. 

He has to convince his dominants that he has no doubts. And make them bond with him sooner rather than later, even if it means it hurts them in the long run.

\---

Bucky heads down to the lab after dinner, his heart in his throat. He doesn't know why Tony's been avoiding him—he hasn't seen him since entering the interrogation room that morning—but he needs to stop whatever it is that’s pulling Tony away. After alienating Steve this afternoon, Tony is his best chance at advancing the bond.

When the glass doors open, heavy metal guitar pours out into the hall, reinvigorating his fading headache. Bucky spots Tony hunched over an uneven cylinder of wiring, his back turned. Judging by the goggles and the smoke rising from his workstation, it's not safe to disturb him yet. 

To pass the time, Bucky wanders around the lab and familiarizes himself with the layout so he'll be less on edge for what he's about to attempt. The last of the monitors are down, and the cables are all gone; it's more than they’d accomplished together a few days ago, so that accounts for at least some of the time Tony's been absent recently. He waves a silent greeting to Dum-E and U in their charging stations, but the robots are either switched off or too depleted to respond. At least they won’t be rolling around the lab distracting him.

When the music cuts out, Bucky turns to find Tony already on his feet, pulling off his goggles to stare at him. 

"Hey," Bucky says shyly.

"You're here!" Tony exclaims, running his hand through his thick hair. "Hi! Umm. When did you get here?"

"Just a few minutes ago." Bucky forces himself to approach his dominant. "I didn't want to interrupt your work."

Tony's eyes light up. "This," he says, gesturing dramatically to the bundle of wiring behind him, "is your new arm. Or it will be. The framework's nowhere near ready, of course. This is just the neuro-mechanical web—a nervous system to control the arm and provide sensory feedback. Bruce has been helping me translate the biological theory into..."

Bucky tunes out the explanation as it descends into meaningless technical terms and steps close to look at the bewildering cluster of wires. Even in its unfinished state, he can see similarities to the wiring Ebersol had shown him when he'd open up the arm to make repairs—or just to toy with the pain threshold and make Bucky scream. But there are already visible differences—like the multitude of short wires branching off like nerve endings—and his heart flips over painfully at the realization that Tony wants to give him an _arm_ , an actual replacement limb, with as complete a range of sensation as possible, rather than a weapon.

"...then once I've finished adapting the servos to allow independent movement of the—"

Unable to speak, Bucky captures one of Tony's gesticulating hands in his.

The bond flickers to life in the contact, and Tony falls abruptly silent, his eyes darting between their joined hands and Bucky's face.

Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat and smiles tremulously, and it’s easy to find the warmth for his dom; it's bleeding into his chest. "Thank you. It means a lot to know you're thinking of me." He steps closer. 

Tony blinks, clearly distracted by his proximity. "Do you need anything? Can I get you something?"

"I missed you today," Bucky admits truthfully. 

Tony's shoulders stiffen, and he glances back toward the project, eyes hooded.

The arm is amazing—the fact that Tony's so committed to working on it even more so—but it's incompatible with the romantic moment Bucky came here to achieve, so he picks his words carefully and says, "The other day…I think you wanted to kiss me." 

Tony's gaze flies back to his, then dips to his mouth. 

"I wanted you to," Bucky says softly, and watches Tony's lips part minutely. Aware he's stepping onto thin ice, Bucky takes a deep breath and cuts off his own line of retreat. "I'm sorry I hesitated then; it was a bad memory. I’ve got a lot of those, but I don’t want to let them get between us. I want to kiss you now, if you still want to. And if I have to hesitate, I don’t want you to pull away from me, okay? Can you be patient for me?" 

"You’re sure, sweetheart?" Tony asks breathlessly. 

His heart swells with triumph even as he lies, "One hundred percent."

"Then I'm all yours," his dominant says, spreading his hands at his sides.

Biting his lip, Bucky steps forward and tentatively touches Tony's jaw, fingertips tingling to awareness against the short hairs of his beard. Tony leans in when he does, and there's a hesitant brush of lips, a fleeting sensation of warmth and friction. Bucky smiles shyly, genuinely excited to have finally managed such a simple demonstration of the love he feels for this man. And then they're kissing again, heads tilting slightly, gentle pressure, and Bucky shifts closer, pressing their chests and thighs together. 

He slides his palm up to cup Tony's cheek, and it’s natural to part his lips and allow the first tentative touch of tongues. 

The siren song of the incomplete bond bursts into full chorus, drowning out all other sensations, and Bucky gasps in shock. 

Tony's arms slip around him, keeping him in place, and Tony murmurs encouragingly in a deep voice that goes right to the center of his brain.

The tension drains from his body like water from a sieve. 

Bucky barely catches a whine before it escapes his throat. He shudders hard and fights the pathetic impulse down, forcing his melting spine to straighten. 

Tony's grip loosens immediately. "Was that a good shiver, or a bad one?" he asks in a neutral tone, though clearly he already knows the answer.

"Don’t let go, okay?" Bucky gasps, fisting his hand in Tony's shirt preemptively. 

"Okay. Anything you need, sweetheart." 

Bucky fumbles for an explanation that will satisfy his dom. "Don’t use the voice. Not yet. It’s…distracting. I want to remember this clearly. Okay, Tony?" While the words he's saying are technically true, it'd be more honest to say he’s desperately afraid of that treacherous slide into a drop that calls to him every time his dominants touch him. He can’t pursue this much physical contact if he’s going to have to compete with Tony’s dominant voice, too.

Tony clears his throat. "Sorry, love. Of course. Sorry." He makes no move to press for additional physical contact, but nor does he retreat.

"Okay," Bucky sighs shakily, still rattled by the near miss but nearly equally embarrassed. He thinks longingly of the lonely bedroom several floors up where he could hide and pretend this hadn't happened, but his better judgment insists he can't lose this chance. He has to convince Tony he wants this. 

"You can—" Bucky stops, swallows, and rephrases. "Can you move your hands a little?" 

"Like this?" Tony asks, and slides his hands up and down Bucky's back in a rhythmic motion. 

Gradually the worst of the tension fades—at least enough that Bucky can push through it. The pressure of Tony’s caress increases steadily, bringing with it the thrum of the bond that dulls the importance of everything but his dom, and Bucky inwardly braces himself against the sensation. Once he feels in control of himself, he murmurs, "Can I have another kiss?"

"You can have as many kisses as you want," Tony says, tilting his head invitingly, but his lips stay teasingly out of reach. When Bucky tries to kiss him, Tony presents him with a ridiculous pucker.

"Tony! Come on!" Bucky scolds, surprised to hear laughter in his voice. He never thought he'd feel so at ease in his dominant's embrace. 

"Come on what?" 

"Kiss me already! A _real_ kiss," he adds quickly when Tony's eyes sparkle with mischief. 

"Oh, well if you want a _real_ kiss...." Tony's mouth presses firmly against his, encouraging his lips to part so Tony's tongue can sweep inside. 

Bucky shivers deliciously at the invasion, and he's whispering, "It's good, it's good, don't stop," before Tony can pull more than an inch away. 

But Tony retreats even further and says, "Steve," in a pleased tone.

Bucky stiffens involuntarily as all the tension comes rushing back. Steve is likely still hurt and angry over his accusations. What must he think of this scene? Bucky turns to follow his dom's gaze, hardly noticing Tony's arms dropping away.

Steve's in the doorway, his expression unreadable. The way he's casually leaning back against the glass implies he's been there a while. Bucky wants to demand how long he's been watching, but he knows it'll sound guilty, and he can't afford to alienate Steve any more today—dinner had been painfully silent. 

Clearly Steve's arrival has put an end to his experiment, and Bucky's sincerely disappointed that his playful interaction with Tony has been cut short. He resigns himself to fleeing their presence at the earliest possible opportunity.

"Come join us?" Tony offers.

Bucky gapes at him, then turns and blinks at an unmoving Steve. Silence stretches between them all for long seconds. Bucky doesn't know what to say. He hadn't thought to attempt anything with Steve tonight; Steve couldn't possibly want him right now.

Finally Steve's eyes drop. "I'm glad you got that kiss you wanted," he says to Bucky's shoes. 

And he sounds so unbelievably sincere—and god, he's not even _angry_ —that Bucky finds himself saying, "Not all the kisses I want," before he has time to even consider a strategy.

Steve’s disbelieving gaze darts up to Bucky and then past him to Tony. 

What the hell is Bucky doing? Half of him wants to beat a hasty retreat; surely he can't do this right now. But that wonderful tenderness he'd felt for Steve last night is bubbling up, undermining his self-preservation, and besides, says the part of him with an eye on the clock, it's too good an opportunity to pass up. 

Bucky straightens his shoulder. "Can I kiss you, Steve?" 

Steve looks indecisive, and on top of everything else Bucky regrets, he feels a brief stab of guilt for having held his dom at arm’s length up to now. But the remorse is quickly replaced by anger at constantly being doubted. Is he going to have to argue his case for this, as well? Must he plead for something more than scraps of physical affection? He sets his jaw; he may be a submissive, but he's never agreed to beg Steve for anything, and he's not about to start now.

"You don't have to say yes," he taunts in the awkward silence, throwing Steve's own discouraging words back at him.

But too much bitterness laces the comment—he's cursing himself the moment he's said it—because while Steve's gaze doesn't leave his, there's a slight tightening around his eyes for a moment, like he caught the thread of resentment and suspects his motive. Bucky breathes through a surge of dread—he can't afford to fuck this up any more than he already has; his friends are counting on him—and shakes his head.

"Sorry. I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. I know better than to doubt you. There's no one in the whole world I can trust with my friends like I trust you," he says, pulling from what he learned about Steve yesterday to infuse his words with the ring of sincerity. His dominant may be playing a dangerous game of chicken with the authorities, their freedom in the balance, but he'd never actively conspire against a submissive. "It was a stressful morning, and I know I shouldn't take it out on either of you, but I...." He lets himself trail off when Steve's shoulders relax. 

"I know you're stressed, Bucky," Steve sighs. "I'm sorry I wasn't more understanding." 

"Come here?" Bucky says softly, holding out his hand. He's gratified when Steve closes the distance to take it in his own, clasping gently and rubbing his thumb on the back of Bucky's hand, sending the familiar sparkle of the bond flowing through their touch. 

In a deliberate echo of last night's closeness, Bucky raises their hands to brush Steve's knuckles against his cheek, noticing the homey fragrance of dish soap that clings to his skin. He turns his head and brushes his lips across each knuckle in turn. The pad of Steve's thumb sweeps across his lower lip, and Bucky shivers with unexpected heat. He impulsively steps forward, burying his face in the crook of Steve's neck and breathing in his familiar scent. 

He can feel the bond beating in time with Steve's heartbeat, and he vaguely remembers being here before, aboard the jet, when Steve held him and took care of him, and he wants nothing as badly as he wants that safety and surety again. _Yours_ , he thinks, another treasured memory, but the thought rings hollow without Steve holding him. It's on the tip of his tongue to plead for Steve to wrap his arms around him, but he swallows it down at the last moment. He doesn't trust himself not to get lost in a drop right now—not after what just happened with Tony. Not with the unfamiliar desire to fully submit pounding in his head. It's better if he keeps his wits about him.

"You haven't said if I can kiss you yet," he whispers, trying for teasing, and Steve jerks as though electrocuted. 

" _Yes_ ," he says harshly, the word torn from him. "Yes, Bucky, please."

His dominant's plea strikes an unnerving discordance, but he shrugs it off and focuses on his goal. When he tilts his face up, Steve leans down to meet him. Bucky presses his lips to Steve's, and his eyelids slide shut at the dizzying rush of happiness, the glorious heat and pressure. Steve groans softly, and Bucky has to pull back just enough to admire how beautiful he is with his eyes closed. He's never going to deserve this amazing man, but he has him for this moment, and he's not letting go as long as Steve can still accept him.

"Kiss me," Bucky whispers, greedy for his dominant's strength, for everything he can get. Steve angles his head to seal their mouths together, tongue flicking out to trace his lips, and Bucky loses himself to the sensations breathlessly. He's reduced to the throbbing in his chest and the forceful caress of Steve's mouth, and he's going to fly away on the pleasure. He aches for something to anchor him: Steve's arms about him, his hand on his neck, anything. 

"Hold me," he pleads, but the neediness in his own voice yanks him back down to earth with a start. He must react physically, because Steve freezes, and Bucky curses inwardly and tries to focus. Things had been going...not _well_ , exactly—he hadn't been in control of himself—but he'd been winning his dom over. He swallows his caution and his pride; he needs this to work. "Steve," he says, trying to recreate that pathetic whine. "Put your arms around me, please." 

But Steve pulls away, beginning to frown. He shakes his head. "I don't want to do anything you don't really want." 

"It's _fine_. I said I want it," Bucky protests sharply, and winces at how angry he sounds.

"Darling," Steve starts in that apologetic tone that always means _No_ , and reaches for his hand. 

"Tony," Bucky says, backing away. Tony believes him; he can argue with his husband for Bucky.

Just as he hoped, Tony says from behind him, "He wants this, Steve. Trust him." 

Bucky smiles encouragingly at Steve. But Tony's hands land on his shoulders unexpectedly, and his smile goes rigid to cover for his flinch. Once again he wishes he were anywhere but here, but he doesn't try to get free; he's determined to see this through. Then Tony squeezes reassuringly, and the bond suddenly pulls hard, making his knees weak, the drop yawning open below him, and Bucky panics and jerks away. He didn't come here to kneel for them! He rounds on Tony, only to realize in an icy wave of returning awareness that Steve is seeing _everything_.

He forces a steady breath despite the frantic mantra, _Fix it! Fix it!_ , running through his head.

"I do want this," he manages to say, trying for calm certainty in the face of the laughable prevarication. "I want you both. But sometimes I have bad memories. I'm sick of them getting in the way. I need you to not pull away while I work through these setbacks." The words are all true, albeit only a fraction of the story. He studies Steve's face for a reaction.

"PTSD isn't something to just push through," Steve says after a long pause, the words solemn and self-important like he thinks he knows about trauma. "You have to give yourself time. Give _us_ time to make you feel safe and comfortable here. We want you to want this as much as we do."

Bucky bites back a furious retort about how Steve's reckless behavior is endangering their already precarious situation, that there's no point in stubbornly delaying what's inevitable. The last thing he can do is acknowledge the time pressure; they'll second guess his motives. "You're still angry about this afternoon," he accuses instead.

Steve shrugs. "I'm not angry. But you don't trust us. Not yet. The bond is hard to resist—we're all struggling with it—but it's worth doing right, when there's mutual affection and trust. You deserve that much."

"But only when _you_ decide I'm ready?" Bucky seethes, frustrated past his limits, and it feels _good_ to lose his temper again. Steve's always insisting he knows best, like he's somehow wiser than Bucky just because he's a dominant, a couple of years older. But Bucky's learned the hard way that morality and hesitation only lead to suffering, and he can't afford to make that mistake again.

Steve's posture goes stiff and formal, and god, Bucky wants to hit him in his self-righteous jaw. He may be underweight and down one arm, but he can still show Steve he's no simpering submissive to be patronized. His knuckles crack as he makes a fist, but ultimately he's not foolish enough to follow through on the violent impulse. 

"Fuck this, I'm going to bed," he snarls instead, and stomps out of the lab rather than wait for another lecture to push him over the edge.

Behind him he hears Tony demanding, "What the hell was that, Steve?" 

The soundproofed glass doors cut off any response.

Bucky doesn't look back as the elevator opens to take him upstairs.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time's up.

"And you don't remember what happened after you landed?"

"No. Just falling." Bucky shudders involuntarily. His recollection of the descent is hazy at best, but his body remembers the piercing cold acutely.

"It's a miracle you survived," Pandit observes in a detached tone. "Falling from such a height—most men would have been killed.

Bucky grimaces and refrains from speculating on the benevolence of a Creator who would perform such a miracle only to leave him in HYDRA's custody. 

"What's the next thing you remember?"

As quickly as possible, Bucky covers waking up in the doctors' care, the installation of the new arm and collar, and the week spent confined to a bed, as well as his introductions to Mentallo, Ebersol, and his fellow prisoners. Pandit allows him to gloss over these traumas, showing more interest in the weeks following.

"It was mostly training for a couple of months, and then running support on their jobs." He jerks his chin at Natasha and Clint beside him.

"You hadn't taken any lives up to that point? That's quite a bit longer than your friends."

"It was about four months before he ordered me to kill anybody," Bucky agrees, trying not to look as though he's bracing himself. It's his day for the hard questions, and he has to make up for his friends' borderline behavior yesterday. The added pressure doesn't make what's coming any easier.

"Why do you think that was?"

"I don't know. The arm was still brand new; they were working on it a couple times a week in those days. Maybe they didn't think it was ready yet?"

"No other reason you can think of?"

Bucky shrugs. He's not about to admit how rebellious he'd been those first months. SHIELD has to believe he was powerless to resist.

"Then tell me about the first person you killed for HYDRA."

He swallows. Makes himself say, "Matej Jurzyca. Slovak Minister of Health. Bratislava, June 9." 

Pandit's face doesn't betray any familiarity with the incident. For a series of events that unmade Bucky and remade him in his enemy's image, it's unnerving to see the name mean nothing to the man sitting in judgment of him.

"What were your orders, exactly?" 

"To kill him publicly. In front of his colleagues."

"And did you make any attempt to resist that order?"

\---

_Politicians spill out of the National Council at the end of the day's session. Minister Jurzyca is easy to pick out, his bald head shining in the afternoon sun._

_Some small part of Bucky knows the rooftop is warm where he lays upon it, braced on his elbows, but he can barely feel its heat. He inhales slowly and centers the man in his sights._

_"Take the shot," Clint prompts quietly._

_The minister is shaking hands with his peers, clapping shoulders and nodding amiably. Through the scope, Bucky can clearly make out the melanoma excision scars on the bridge of his nose, the paper-thin skin at his temple._

_"Bucky...." Clint says, worry creeping into his voice._

_"I'm fine," Bucky says._

_It's a lie, of course; he'll never be fine again. The storm inside him is long past, leaving devastation and a kind of numb horror in its wake. He'll never say it aloud, but he's convinced some part of him will be screaming forever._

_"Could you put your hand on my back?" He has no right to ask for this, doesn't look to check whether Clint flinches at the outrageous request. But after a few seconds his friend shimmies forward until he can squeeze Bucky's right shoulder._

_The comforting touch scalds him, steady pressure on the tiny wounds hidden beneath his jacket. Bucky allows himself one last shudder at the reminder of what's at stake, what's already lost._

_The minister's car is pulling around to the bottom of the steps, but the man won't reach it today. Bucky has his priorities straight this time. He'll never make that mistake again._

_Bucky inhales the sweet summer air and finds it cold and empty, like the void in his chest. He adjusts his aim minutely, exhales winter chill, and squeezes the trigger. His body rocks smoothly with the recoil, and he watches Jurzyca's freckled forehead slam back, the corpse immediately crumpling to the pavement amid a flock of fleeing politicians._

_Watching the unmoving body for a few seconds, he thinks he should probably feel something._

_He's just killed a civilian. For all he knows an innocent—probably even a force for good. He's never been a murderer before. His world should be shattered._

_But he's just numb, already hollowed out by pain and grief. There's nothing here that can touch him._

_"You did good," Clint murmurs, patting his side reassuringly, apparently oblivious to the hideous irony of his words. "Come on."_

_On autopilot, Bucky slings his weapon over his back and crawls back from the edge before standing. His balance wavers for a moment as his shocky body betrays his resolve, but he shakes his head, and his surroundings snap back into focus._

_"You did so good. So good," Clint says softly, and puts an arm around his shoulders, urgently tugging him toward the roof door. "Tasha's waiting for us. Let's get out of here."_

_Bucky thinks about protesting the coddling. He's perfectly capable of moving on his own. But everything still feels weirdly far away, and he silently allows himself to be led down the stairs._

_In the loading dock, Clint takes Bucky's rifle from him and hands him over to a blank-faced Natasha. Her hands are uncharacteristically gentle as she pulls him into the backseat of the waiting car. In the rearview mirror Bucky watches the driver's eyes dart anxiously around the street. Sirens sound faintly in the distance._

_It's not until Clint slides in on his other side that Bucky realizes she's placed him in the middle._

_"I'm fine. It's fine," he lies again, pulling his arms in tight to take up less room and staring straight ahead to keep from having to acknowledge their concern. How can they bear to touch him after the nightmare he brought on them all with his defiance?_

_But Clint wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders and presses his forehead to Bucky's temple as the driver peels out, bouncing slightly off the curb. And Bucky's weak, too greedy for comfort to push him away._

_Natasha grips his flesh hand and breathes slowly and deeply, silently setting him an example. He sets his shaking jaw and mimics her, thinks about her teeth digging into his shoulder, teaching him how to drown out soul-deep anguish with simple, physical pain._

_"You did good, Buck," Clint whispers, resuming his litany of damning praise._

_Staring blindly out the windshield, Bucky listens to the approaching sirens and breathes through the pain._

\---

"Sergeant Barnes, did you attempt to resist the order?"

He shakes his head, choosing the simplest version of the truth to meet their needs. "I took the shot just like he wanted."

"Like hell you did! That's not true, Buck!" Clint's outburst is too loud for the small space, and they all flinch.

_Oh shit._

"Clint—"

"You wouldn't do it. You're a good man—you wouldn't just follow an order like that."

"I killed him." Bucky says firmly, staring into Clint's eyes and trying to will him to play along. "Mentallo gave the order, and I shot him. That's what happened."

Clint thrusts out his chin, and there's a helpless sinking feeling in Bucky's gut as he realizes Clint's not going to be silent, god damn him. 

"You didn't. Not the first day. I won't let people think you were a killer like us. He sent you out there, but you wouldn't do it because it was wrong. Because you were good, and brave, and you wouldn't kill an innocent man. You—"

"Be silent, you ass!" Natasha snaps, harsher than he's ever heard her speak to Clint.

Clint cuts himself off, looking shocked and hurt like he has no idea what the objection could be. Of course he doesn't see the harm he's done; he's always thought more highly of Bucky than he should. It could well be the death of them all.

"Oh, no, do keep talking, Barton," Pandit practically purrs, eyes alight with more excitement than he's shown since the first day. Clint flinches and leans away, suddenly wary. "Did I catch that correctly, Sergeant? It took more than one attempt to murder the Slovak minister because you _refused an order?_ " 

Before Bucky can think of a way to cover for Clint's words, the agent stands and places his hands on the table, staring them all down. 

"For days I've listened to stories of how Mentallo couldn't be disobeyed. Of how he had psychic powers that made his orders 'irresistible.' But according to Barton here, you managed to resist?"

"I...."

"Were you in some way special? Did he not use the same 'compulsions' on you?"

"He was as much under Mentallo's thumb as the rest of us," Natasha says urgently. "He _tried_ to resist the order, like you said, but resistance wasn't an option. Mentallo always won."

Bucky stares at her in mute gratitude, surprised that she's defending him so vehemently after yesterday's argument.

"Yes, that's very interesting," Pandit says, barely sparing her a glance. "But I don't like being lied to. And I'm getting the distinct impression that much of this," he twirls his finger to encompass the table and their seats at it, "has been a show. Tell me, Sergeant Barnes: Did you carry out HYDRA's orders willingly?"

"I didn't want to follow them," he hedges.

"But you had the ability to disobey an order if you chose."

Bucky stays silent. Clint's already given away this answer.

Natasha interrupts again, leaning forward to intercept the interrogator's attention. "Disobedience was only an illusion. There was no escaping his rules."

"If you didn't assassinate your target on the first day, that means you had a choice," Pandit insists, ignoring her. When Bucky doesn't respond, he continues, "So what motivated you to kill Minister Jurzyca in the end?"

Clint shoots Bucky an appalled look, finally realizing what he's done.

It's too late. Bucky can feel the walls closing in on him, the mirror with his doms behind it looming closer. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was going to make his doms love him before they found out what he'd done, and then maybe they'd choose to keep him even if they learned the truth. He hasn't won them yet, and now everything's ruined.

He can barely hear himself over the roaring in his ears as he fumbles, "Mentallo gave the order—"

"Which you _disobeyed_ , up until you _didn't_. So what made you choose to carry it out?"

Silence stretches for unbearable seconds.

"He threatened Clint," Bucky whispers shakily. The admission makes his stomach swoop like the first drop of a rollercoaster.

Natasha and Clint have averted their eyes, shoulders hunched. The three of them had had an unspoken agreement that certain facts would never be spoken. But now, thanks to Clint's ill-timed defense, Bucky's worst secrets are about to be dragged into the open for SHIELD and his dominants to hear.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that. Would you mind repeating yourself, Sergeant?"

Before Bucky can find the strength to repeat even that fraction of the horrifying truth, there's a loud knock at the door that makes them all jump in their seats. 

Pandit touches the radio in his ear for a silent moment, then scowls and says, "Are you sure it has to be now?" Even as he's sighing in disappointment, the door swings open from the outside.

The guard steps out of the way, revealing Steve and Tony in the hallway.

"Director Fury is calling," Steve tells them all. "He wants to speak with us."

In the space of a single breath, the room resumes its normal dimensions. Bucky stumbles to his feet, still trembling with adrenaline, almost unable to comprehend the unexpected reprieve.

Tony looks more worried than appalled, and Bucky realizes he doesn't know how much his doms may have missed in the last couple of minutes, distracted by the call coming in. There may still be time.

"We'll pick up where we left off when you return," Pandit promises ominously, and Bucky can feel the agent's eyes on him as he steps out of the room.

He doesn't know what's going on, what kind of emergency would prompt the Director of SHIELD to interrupt his own interrogation, but one thing is certain: The next time Bucky enters this room, everything's over.

\---

The projector screen in the main room is already in place when the elevator doors open. It shows the Director of SHIELD pacing in front of a dark room, the folds of his leather trench coat catching the light dramatically.

Steve clears his throat, and Fury turns to the camera and frowns at them all.

_\- "This isn't a matter for the whole family, Captain. What I have to say is private for the two of you." -_

"It concerns us, doesn't it?" Clint demands. "We deserve to know if you're discussing our fates."

Bucky winces at his friend's belligerence, but it's Natasha who takes matters in hand.

"You've said more than enough today," she murmurs firmly. With a nod to Bucky, she pulls Clint by the elbow. 

Clint squeezes Bucky's shoulder on his way out of the room.

Steve and Tony move to flank Bucky, making it clear he's allowed to remain.

 _\- "The secret's out, gentlemen,"_ \- Fury starts. _\- "All hell's breaking loose." -_

"We saw the news this morning," Steve agrees. The handful of protesters had multiplied overnight; hundreds currently surround the Tower, baying for their blood. "Ms. Potts has already closed the building and sent the employees home."

_\- "It's not as easy as just battening the hatches. I'm fielding calls from all over the world. The World Security Council. The United Nations. The president of France. Just about every world leader in the northern hemisphere is demanding retribution. Hell, Victor von Doom has already filed for extradition." -_

Bucky cringes back a few inches.

_\- "The WSC and a few other bodies are setting up a tribunal. They've demanded copies of the interviews we've conducted so far, and I've granted their request." -_

His stomach turns at the thought of more authorities watching yesterday's disastrous interview. His friends will be executed immediately.

_\- "Now, that isn't going to stall them long; once they've reviewed the footage, they'll be back demanding full custody. I've done what I can to put them off, but time's up. If you've got something up your sleeves—and knowing Stark, he has—then you'd better use it now. Or prepare to turn all three of them over to face the music." -_

"We've got a plan," Tony says immediately, and Bucky's shoulder relaxes a fraction. "We'll get right on—" 

"Thank you for your advice," Steve cuts in stiffly. "But we'll decide for ourselves when it's time to take further steps."

Bucky's racing heart rate quickens at the suspicion that Steve—like Agent Pandit—has already guessed some of the truths Bucky and his friends have been trying to hide.

Fury frowns and fixes Steve with his good eye. _\- "I'm not calling for my own health, Captain Stark. I'm trying to avert an international incident. If the stakeholders weren't still squabbling over who will assume custody, they'd already be knocking on your door. As it is, you **may** have until tomorrow. Certainly no later." -_

"I appreciate your concern, Director, and we will do whatever is necessary. But we won't be making hasty mistakes."

"Steven, what the hell are you talking about! We have to do this now!" Tony blurts, shifting his weight restlessly. "Jarvis, contact Pepper. Tell her it's happening today; I want everything set up for this afternoon."

"We're not doing this now," Steve declares, crossing his arms and glaring forbiddingly, and all Bucky's hopes crash around him.

Bucky helplessly watches Fury as his doms continue to argue around him. The director scowls back at him, blatantly sizing him up and sneering in disdain. Finally Fury turns his attention back to the squabbling Avengers and throws up his hands in disgust.

 _\- " **Time. Is. Up.** Captain," -_ he says loudly. _\- "Stark, get your husband straightened out before this blows up in all our faces." -_ He gestures, and the call cuts off.

Bucky exhales shakily and locks his knees to keep himself upright. This is the end. He's waited too long to act, and his cowardice has cost his friends their only chance at freedom.

Just this morning, a perverse part of Bucky had driven him to press his forehead to the windows, trying to see the protesters firsthand from too great a height. That same stubborn voice is even now begging for this all to be over. No more interrogations, no more fear of discovery—just throw him to the wolves and let it all die...like he should have in that first fall. Doesn't he deserve it, after all? Hundreds of times over? 

But his friends' lives are at stake, too, and he won't sacrifice them to satisfy his own guilty conscience. He has to find a way to fix this. If there's anything he can do to spare them this fate, then it's his duty to make it happen, whatever it takes.

"Jarvis, have you alerted Pepper yet?"

_"I have, sir."_

"Good. Tell her I want this on the six o'clock news. And for god's sake, get that paperwork signed and notarized."

"Tony, what did I just—" 

"We're doing this, Steve. He needs it. I mean, look at him!"

Bucky abruptly becomes aware of a silence around him, and when he finally drags himself back to the present, it's to find Steve gazing at him with a softening expression. 

He has just a moment to recognize a new surge of hope when Steve says, "I know you're scared, Buck, but you can't take the director's threats seriously." Steve glances at Tony, missing Bucky's incredulous blink. "Mockingbird confirmed Romanoff's accusations: SHIELD still hasn't hit two of the HYDRA locations she and Barton gave Fury a week ago."

"What? What the hell are you saying?" Tony demands, his eyes darting suspiciously around the room.

"Nothing definite. I'm not saying Fury's working with HYDRA—of course he's not. But he's up to something. And if he's keeping secrets about that, who's to say even this isn't a ploy? We've no guarantee things are as dire as he claims they are."

Tony shakes his head violently. "There are protesters outside my building. Those people aren't fake. The world knows they're here now; we can't just keep hiding. _They're coming_ , Steve," he adds, a kind of wildness creeping into his tone.

Tony's urgency is reassuring; clearly he still wants Bucky and is willing to take steps to protect him. Perhaps, if Steve isn't firmly set against him yet, they can win him over together. Taking a deep breath, Bucky steps forward.

"What's the plan, Tony? What's happening today?"

Steve starts to say something, but Tony talks over him as he rushes to explain.

"It's a press conference—I'm sure we've mentioned it to you before." Bucky nods. "After we lost you, we released that interview about looking for you. It was Pepper's idea. For months, the whole world was obsessed with our 'tragic love story.' Billions of people want the three of us to have a happy ending. They haven't met you, but they love you already."

Bucky takes a steadying breath as the magnitude of that statement sinks in. He hadn't quite realized how calculated the interview that had chased him across Europe really was. He remembers accusing them of having his arrival all planned out—god, was that only a couple of weeks ago? Apparently he'd been more right than he'd known.

"So we hold a full-scale press interview today—Pepper has the guest list on speed dial, only reputable reporters—and we sell them the romance of the century." Tony steps in close to touch his cheek, and Bucky holds himself very still, not even daring to breathe as he stares into Tony's wide eyes. "Once the world knows your face and sees how much we love each other, SHIELD and the WSC and whoever else wants a piece of you can't touch you. Nobody can disappear you. They'll have to listen to your defense."

"He shouldn't be subjected to public scrutiny like this. Not yet," Steve argues. "He's still adjusting. Don't put him through this."

The prospect of being paraded before the public makes his skin crawl, and the idea of playing a love-sick sub has him pulling away from Tony's touch. If he had his say, he'd remain in hiding forever, but that's not an option right now. Not with what's waiting for him downstairs. Tony's offering to publicly acknowledge him. If the Starks claim him before the whole world, they'll be less likely to turn him and his friends over to the authorities, no matter how their feelings for him change with the next interrogation. He can't let this opportunity pass him by.

Locking eyes with Tony, he points out the elephant in the room. "If this press conference is about romance, then we have to be bonded, don't we?"

"We don't have to do this," Steve insists before Tony can reply.

"Fury said as much when he was here. So did the lawyers. Remaining unbonded makes it look like you don't trust me."

"He's right, Steve," Tony says. "You know he's right. And he wants this. We don't have to keep waiting."

"Bucky, listen to me. Trust me. You don't have to do this right now. We'll find a way through this, I promise."

It's a lovely fiction Steve's trying to sell, but Bucky doesn't want the extra time he's offering. Pandit is waiting for him, armed with the leverage to pry out the worst of his secrets. Once his doms learn the truth about him, they'll hand him over to the authorities with all haste.

"You don't have a plan, do you?" he accuses, throwing Steve's promise back in his face. "The press conference is the plan, and you don't have another. You're going to wait too long, and they're going to come for me."

Steve shakes his head, but he's not denying the charge. "There's still time, I'm sure of it. There's enough time for it to be your choice."

"Choice?" he echoes incredulously, a year's frustration beginning to bubble to the surface. "It's inevitable. The only choice I have is _when_ we complete it, but you've been taking that away from me for days now!"

"Babe, we need to do this," Tony says, stepping forward to grab at his husband's hands. "Time's up, you know it is. And I need more time, Steve. Please, please, I need more time!"

"It's not right. He doesn't want it."

"He loves us," Tony insists, and Bucky can see how tightly he's squeezing Steve's hands. "Of course he wants it." Seeming to realize his argument isn't doing any good, Tony changes gears and reaches up to stroke Steve's blond hair back from his temple. "Babe, you've been so good; you've waited so long for him to be sure. But he's ready now. He's been ready. Can't you see it in his eyes?" Tony turns Steve's face toward Bucky. "Sweetheart, tell him. Tell him how much you love him."

All Bucky's words desert him for a moment as he's abruptly put on the spot, and his mouth hangs open stupidly before he swallows his panic. He _does_ know what he has to say; it's just a question of being willing to do it. The words Tony wants are ones he's never used to a treasonous end, but Bucky's adaptable. He just needs to think of it as performing for his friends' safety; he's done so before.

"I do. I do want you." He grimaces at how wooden the phrases sound. His friends need this; he has to do better. He tries a more sincere mask. "I _love_ you, Steve."

Steve shuts his eyes with a pained expression. "Don't say what you think we want to hear. Don't say it if you don't mean it."

Bucky flinches at the fear that flashes through him. This is his own fault; he ran from Steve for too long. He's never going to win him over with pretty words, because Steve's never going to believe he loves him. 

"I need this," he says, trying a different tack. "I need this press conference to feel safe. I'm so scared right now, you have no idea. They're coming, Steve, and I need this to be safe. Keep me safe."

Steve exhales explosively and pulls free of his husband to pace a few steps back and forth. "I wish I knew how to make you believe me!" he exclaims, and Bucky can't help but recognize the irony despite the fraught circumstances. "I can't explain it, but I _know_ you're safe here. Time's not up yet, Bucky. Trust me."

That's it, then. Steve won't be won over. His refusal leaves Bucky only one choice. A terrible, terrible choice. It will cost him Steve forever, but it could save his friends.

He doesn't want to do it, but he's learned not to let that stop him. Bucky calls up the memory of Clint's hand on his shoulder, painful marks from Natasha's teeth underneath. 

With a deep breath, he drops to his knees.

He barely hears his doms' gasps over his heart kicking into panicked overtime. He can _do_ this. He has to. He lifts his chin and watches their reactions.

Immediately Steve is kneeling before him, pleading urgently, "Don't do this. Not like this. Not because you're scared. Please, you don't have to sacrifice yourself like this...." 

Steve's voice is cracking and desperate, and hearing his dominant begging feels wrong, like a filthy caress sliding on bare skin, but Bucky has to do this. His friends' safety is worth sacrificing any trust he might have ever built with Steve. 

"Tony," Bucky calls softly, trying to ignore Steve's pleas.

Tony steps forward, and Bucky notes that his eyes have gone dark, as though Bucky's posture has brought out his dominant instincts. "It's okay, babe. It's okay. He wants this, I promise."

Steve's frantic protests continue, so Bucky reaches inside himself for that core of vulnerability, that tight, endlessly hungry knot in his heart, the one he'd locked away long ago. He clears his throat and finds his own _voice_ , the bell-like tone that pulses from that place deep inside him.

" _I need this. I need to be yours. And I need to know that you're mine._ " His voice throbs with a naked need he hasn't dared express since he was a naive teen, and the incomplete bond echoes in his words, lending an irresistible weight to his plea.

"Darling, please, _please stop_ —" Steve sobs, but his voice is deepening in helpless response, sending electricity racing up and down Bucky's spine, pulling the shameful truth out of him in a needy rush:

" _I ache without you. Every day it feels a little like I'm dying inside. Like you couldn't want me after all. Tell me I'm yours,_ " he demands, beginning to pull on the bond. " _Tell me you're going to keep me forever._ "

" _You are mine, James Buchanan Barnes. I claim you. And I am yours in return._ " Tony answers in a throaty voice that thrums in Bucky's chest, cracks that empty part of him wide open, and slips inside to take up permanent residence. Tony touches him, cups the nape of his neck, and the skin contact is a jolt, a forest fire, renewing even as it consumes him deep inside, making him into something new.

Bucky's mind whirls, overwhelmed by the sensation, the invasion of his self. He wants to slam all the doors shut, lock Tony out and retreat back into himself, but at the same time it's not enough. He's still empty, still achingly hungry.

" _Steve, please,_ " Bucky calls, blind with need, " _I'm yours._ " And now he can _see_ the incomplete bond strung between the two of them, pulled taut and straining from Steve's efforts to stay away, and at its end is a hook in his own chest that makes it hard to exhale. It's an awful feeling, cold and terrifying, and he wants nothing in the world so much as he wants it to stop hurting. 

His completed bond with Tony adds weight to the line, and Bucky takes hold of the feeling and pulls with all his might, feels the force mirrored in his own chest, expectant ache roaring up to swallow him whole, and in his fear he chokes out, " _Please. I need you. Tell me._ "

And finally, finally, Steve answers.

" _Yes,_ " Steve rasps, and as his face swims into focus Bucky can see the tears streaming down his cheeks. " _I claim you, James Buchanan Barnes. And I am yours: my life, my heart, all of me. I am yours in return._ " Steve slumps forward then, burying his face in Bucky's knees, but his hand fumbles under the hem of Bucky's shirt until it presses against the bare skin at his waist.

The bond snaps into place with the concussion of high explosives, a shockwave that starts in his chest and radiates outward, rearranging every cell in his body in one inexorable wave. 

It's suddenly easy to breathe. Like he's been breathing through a straw for the past year, slowly dying of suffocation, but now has unrestricted access to all the oxygen he needs. The unbearable emptiness—the persistent ache in his chest—is gone, and for the next few seconds his only thought is blissful relief, all the need and fear and relentless ache evaporated without a trace. 

He pants in the silence for a few moments before it hits him that he's succeeded in winning them at last; they're bonded. His dominants will hold the press conference that will bind them to protect his friends. But quick on the heels of that realization is a terrible, sick feeling that corrupts his triumph, an undeniable sensation of wrongness that raises goosebumps on his skin. Steve shudders in his lap, seemingly in response, and Bucky wants to die of shame. What has he done?

"Steve," he croaks, desperate to apologize, to beg for forgiveness for betraying him.

Tony is beside him before Bucky can find the words, crouched low and touching both of their necks. He blinks wet eyes and smiles so, so wide. " _My love,_ " he says, radiating happiness and still using the _voice_ , and he tugs Bucky into a kiss even as Bucky starts to sink.

Tony's fingers press on the stitches—still just two days old—and it hurts, but it's a good pain because it comes from his dominant, makes him gasp into Tony's mouth and give up that pain gladly. Tony's rumble of approval transmutes the discomfort into pleasure that shimmers warm all the way to Bucky's toes and makes him mewl for more sensation.

Then Tony's moving away and pulling Steve upright, dragging him into a kiss of his own. Bucky stares, transfixed by the easy way their lips fit together, the way they sigh and lean into each other. He's simultaneously hungry for the same and perfectly content to watch them forever.

Almost before he knows it, Tony is pushing Steve toward him, bringing them mere inches apart. Steve's eyes are still wide and devastated, so Bucky closes his own eyes and presses his lips to Steve's in a kiss that tastes like tears. 

The feeling of wrongness wells up again, an overflowing of remorse and sorrow that spills from the unlocked space in Bucky's chest and pours between his fingers. He presses his hand to Steve's cheek and tries to show how much he truly does care about him, how he'd never wanted to hurt him. 

"Thank you," he whispers between chaste kisses. He ignores the distant voice in his head pointing out that _I'm sorry_ would be more appropriate.

"I'm yours," Steve says simply. "I always was."

"Steve," Bucky breathes again and leans forward as though to melt into him.

"You're so beautiful together," Tony whispers, and Steve pulls away so they can both look at him, at his glazed, ravenous expression, at the way his hands are clenching absently by his thighs.

Bucky flushes with a hunger of his own, feels like he's drifting into Tony's orbit without moving.

"Christ, look at you," Tony murmurs hazily. He cups Bucky's face in both palms and rubs his thumbs at the corners of his mouth. Bucky's lips part even as his eyes slide closed again. "It's been harder than hell keeping my hands off you. I almost can't believe you're finally mine." 

The casual possession feels right, makes Bucky want to purr and call Tony _sir_. But something makes him hold his tongue.

"I'm going to fix everything, sweetheart. You'll see. There's time now. Steve and I are gonna take such good care of you."

Bucky opens his eyes to find Steve still beside him. But this time he knows something's off. He's not sure what it is, but there's _something_ wrong, and he whines in distress. He blinks a few times, and the fog in his head shifts just a little. Steve should be touching him, he thinks greedily. How can he make it up to Steve if he won't touch him? (Make what up to Steve? He can't remember.) Bucky takes Steve's hand and guides it to the nape of his bowed neck, where it settles with a delicious pressure that makes Bucky shiver all over. 

Fighting the smothering wave of contentment that follows, Bucky looks up at Steve for approval and finds him shaking his head, wide-eyed. 

"I don't deserve you, darling." 

Bucky smiles in response, because that word makes him happy. _Darling_ is a good word. But the rest isn't right. Bucky's not happy. He should be; he has his dominants with him, touching him, loving him. But that voice in the back of his mind isn't going away, telling him to pick up his head and get off his knees, telling him he should be ashamed of himself.

Frowning, Bucky at last recognizes the limbo he's hovering in, that uncomfortable space where he's almost down, but something is keeping him from floating away. He needs his doms to push him over to that place where everything's alright, where he can finally stop thinking.

"Tony," he struggles to say, reaching blindly for his dominant's hand.

Tony ruffles his hair instead. "There you are. There's my good boy," he croons in a faraway voice.

But Bucky hears Clint's voice on that rooftop, _You did good_ , and it's a knife in his guts. His mind clears in a flash, all trace of the submissive mindset gone, leaving him wanting to scream for what he's done.

Bucky curls forward around the pain and allows himself a brief moment to ride it out and breathe, but all too soon he's sitting up and forcing a smile for his— _his_ , god help them—doms.

Through some instinct Bucky doesn't want to think about, Steve has already removed his hand from Bucky's neck. But Tony watches in confusion when Bucky leans back out of his reach.

"Is everything okay, love?"

"I'm fine," Bucky lies, blinking around at the room, impatient for his eyes to adjust to the now-overwhelming daylight. "We should get ready, huh?" 

Steve's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but he holds out a hand to help Bucky to his feet.

Bucky breathes deep and slow and adds this latest atrocity to the list of crimes he's committed in his friends' names. When he's certain he won't start screaming, he takes Steve's hand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going public

The door is closed partway, giving the illusion of privacy. But Bucky is hyper aware of the SHIELD agent standing watch just outside, making sure he doesn't attempt to escape from a windowless bathroom on the 10th floor of Stark Tower. 

Just thinking it has Bucky's eyes straying involuntarily to the air vents in the ceiling. He could get up in there if he absolutely had to, even with just one arm, but not without making one hell of a racket. And he'd never find his way back to the upper levels in time to defend his friends from retribution for an escape attempt.

The agent clears his throat, and Bucky yanks his eyes back to his own reflection in the mirror. He forces himself to stand up straighter in the eerily perfect suit and tries on a sappy smile, then grimaces at the image.

"Leave your other clothes in there when you’re done," Pepper Potts calls from the other room.

He kicks his abandoned hoodie and jeans into a corner with the shiny toe of his brand new loafer.

The guard steps back when he emerges, and Bucky suppresses a shiver as he passes within inches of the stranger. SHIELD's surveillance is even more overzealous on this lower floor, but he reminds himself to be grateful to be allowed down here at all, let alone without his dominants present to vouch for him. 

Ms. Potts is waiting in what Jarvis had called the Green Room—a large, windowless room with groupings of comfortable-looking chairs and several desks with mirrors. She's alone in the room—except for the cluster of ever-present agents standing by the door.

"The suit was ready 24 hours after you left Latveria," she's saying as he enters. "Once Jarvis had your measurements, I had them sent to Tony's tailor, who was handsomely reimbursed for the rush." She puts her hands on her hips and looks him up and down critically. Bucky does his best not to fidget. "But thanks to the delay, there's been time for finer tuning. Such as balancing the arms."

His stomach clenches sickly at that. He hadn't really given any thought to the imbalance caused by his loss of muscle mass this past year, the way the dead arm must appear laughably oversized by comparison. 

"Yes, this will do nicely," she continues with a nod. "We won't need the sling."

Bucky looks down at the dark blue suit and the new glove that hides the metal hand. "I prefer to wear a sling," he says, keeping his voice mild. It'd been a useful prop for hiding the nature of the artificial limb as well as causing people to underestimate him.

Something unfriendly flashes through Ms. Pott's eyes, but she turns and gestures for him to follow her toward a well-lit mirror. "A sling is a sign of weakness. You should never wear one in front of the press unless you want them to ask about it." 

As he follows Bucky considers having to explain his injuries, Ebersol's bionics, and the effects of Tony's EMP. She has a point.

"Tony didn't wear his sling for the interview last year for that very reason," she adds pointedly.

He sits in the chair she indicates and pretends to study the uninteresting surface of the desk rather than show the blow land. No matter how many times he reminds himself that Tony's forgiven him for shooting him in the back, that still doesn't absolve him of the crime.

After a moment she steps back and makes a considering noise. "Undo the top two buttons of your shirt," she instructs, and he flinches at the unexpected command. He'd been bracing himself to let her put a tie around his neck, but this is something else entirely. "Showing your throat will make you more approachable."

 _More vulnerable_ , he translates as he silently works the buttons with one hand. Dominants always prefer their submissives to look vulnerable.

She gestures at her own slender throat, and he pushes the edges of the white shirt further apart to bare more skin. Unease skitters up his spine as she regards him critically and then nods. He takes a deep breath to block out the feeling, absently marveling how much easier it is to breathe since settling the bond.

"We're treading a fine line here, simultaneously presenting a helpless victim and a sub capable of heroically rescuing his dominant. You're not an easy sell, Sergeant Barnes." There's a thread of dislike beneath her businesslike tone.

Bucky sneaks a glance at her reflection. While he has an innate awareness that she's a domme, her underlying hostility doesn't unsettle him as much as it usually would coming from a dominant. It seems to be another change that's come with the bond, and he wonders if this will be true of his interactions with all dominants. It would be a welcome relief to no longer feel every dom's disapproval like an itch under his skin.

But the outcome of today's efforts—the very safety of his friends—lies entirely in her hands, which gives her an unnerving degree of power over him. If she for any reason decides to stop helping him, everything could fall apart.

When Ms. Potts hands him a tube of pale makeup and explains that it's concealer for the circles below his eyes, he takes it and nods, projecting compliance with her whims. She crouches beside him and leans toward the mirror, demonstrating how to apply it by pressing clean fingers to her own, immaculately made up face.

He's just getting started when there's a stir among the guards. The door to the hall swings open, and Steve strides in. Pepper hurries over to intercept him, and Bucky goes cold when he realizes that Steve's alone.

He hasn't spoken with his doms since bonding. Steve had separated them efficiently, leading a still-confused Tony away to their suite and directing Bucky to freshen up in his own bathroom. What if he's managed to bring Tony to his senses while they were alone? What if Steve's here to tell him the press conference has been cancelled?

Bucky's knees have turned watery, so he stays seated, craning his head to try to see Steve around Ms. Potts. It looks like Steve's wearing a suit, but Bucky can't tell if he's dressed to meet the press.

"I need you in the main room right now," Potts is saying, pointing Steve back out into the hallway. "Get SHIELD to back off out there and let Stark security take over in front of the reporters. They're sending entirely the wrong impression."

Steve says something Bucky can't hear, shifting to look past her toward Bucky, but Potts continues to block his path, saying, "Don't worry, we're fine. Now put on your game face and get to work." He still doesn't leave until she lowers her voice and adds something Bucky doesn't catch.

Potts's fond smile dims a few degrees as she returns to Bucky's side, settling into a pleasant expression that strikes him as professional and practiced.

As he resumes applying the makeup under her watchful gaze, he can't help wondering if she knows about the circumstances of today's bonding. Would she hold it against him if she did? She's the one who'd been pushing for this press conference since the first day. But the way she kept Steve away from him just now had felt deliberate.

Her impersonal smile stays firmly in place for the next few minutes as Bucky silently follows her instructions. It's while he's combing his hair to her specifications that she finally drops the mask and answers his unspoken question.

"So," she says, eyeing him. "You finally agreed to bond with them."

Bucky startles at that, dumbfounded by this interpretation. How can she not be aware that it's been Steve holding them up all week? Steve had repeatedly told her on videoconference that they were postponing this event. He's the one who brought them to this point and forced Bucky's hand.

"Don't try to pretend you're not using them. Those men have been head over heels since they met you, while you've done nothing but torture them for an entire year. And now that it's _expedient_ , you choose to bond with them," she says, scowling fiercely. She's towering above him, and Bucky warily keeps his eyes on her hands, which remain rigid at her sides. 

"I haven't tortured them," he offers carefully. "Steve was the one who—"

"I found Tony _on the floor!_ " she spits, clearly tapping into some pre-existing rage. "He hadn't slept in so long he was incoherent! Do you have _any_ idea what I owe that man?"

Bucky says nothing.

"He wants you safe, which is the only reason I'm allowing this circus. But if you think I'm going to stand idly by and let a submissive take advantage of him, you're badly mistaken. If I ever find out that you've hurt him again, so help you god."

Ms. Potts is innately imposing, with her perfect hair and makeup, her aggressively fashionable suit and high heels. The wrathful dominance flashing in her eyes adds to the effect, and it's all Bucky can do to hold his ground before her. Instead he presses his shoulder against the chair back and lifts his chin, letting her rant wash over him without showing any intimidation.

She must not know what he did earlier, he concludes, or this lecture would take a completely different tone. This is a straightforward shovel talk, albeit from a domme with quite a bit of power over him. Inwardly he's relieved that they'd never met in person before he completed the bond. If she's really this protective of Tony, she would have cautioned him to be as skeptical as Steve was. 

Her accusations of using his dominants aren't entirely accurate; hadn't he willingly put himself and his friends in their hands days ago, only to meet with belated resistance from Steve? It's not Bucky's fault that his dominants waited until things came to a head. And this press conference wasn't his idea. It'd been as much her plan as Tony's.

But her words still make him uncomfortable, and he's reminded of the day he met his friends, of the similar warning Tasha'd given. And despite his best intentions, hadn't he ended up proving her right?

Bucky blinks that memory away, firmly reminding himself that Tony _is_ happy—or at least, he was the last time Bucky'd seen him. He hadn't wanted to wait any more than Bucky had. So it's not like Bucky'd really gone so very far this morning; they all knew that completing the bond was inevitable. He'd just pushed the timeline faster than Steve wanted.

"You had better love that man and keep him happy, because if you knew the kinds of things he's done for you, the documents he's—"

Ms. Potts's lecture cuts off abruptly when the door opens again, ushering in both of his doms. She spins on her heel and stalks across the room. "All right, let me see!" she demands, blocking their path.

Steve must pass inspection, because this time she lets him by without comment. But she grabs Tony by the sleeve and drags him to a mirror at the other end of the room, thrusting another tube of concealer at him.

Bucky doesn't catch what she hisses at Tony; he's distracted by Steve heading his way. He jumps to his feet and anxiously smooths wrinkles out of the fancy new clothes.

Steve stops before him, so impossibly handsome and polished in a proper suit that Bucky's heart aches despite his worry. "You look wonderful," Steve says quietly. Bucky's heart clenches at the sincerity in his dom's face, but he can't help but note that Steve's shoulders are slumped.

"You, too," he says awkwardly, and Steve smiles but doesn't say anything. "Steve, is everything okay?" Bucky finally asks, dreading the response.

"I wanted to apologize," Steve says, briefly averting his gaze before making eye contact. "You didn't feel safe. I should have realized. I should have done something to fix it; that's my job." He takes a breath that looks pained, "I didn't listen, and I'm sorry." 

Bucky inhales sharply, relief and regret overwhelming him unexpectedly. 

"You're being so brave right now. I know this can't be easy for you. And I want you to know I'll support you one hundred percent. I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure you and your friends are safe, Bucky. You have my word."

Bucky should have known better. Of course Steve wouldn't call off this press conference—he'd never endanger submissives, least of all in retaliation for something one had done to him. The realization brings him less comfort than he would have expected. He swallows hard, torn between the urge to beg for forgiveness and the conviction that he'd only done what he had to. Eventually he offers Steve a small olive branch.

"Ms. Potts brought me cufflinks," he says, digging them out of the pocket where he'd put them when he realized he'd never be able to manage them one-handed. "Do you think you could help me with them?"

Steve smiles again, just as gently as before, and accepts the cufflinks. 

Bucky reaches down and awkwardly hauls up his left arm so Steve can get to the cuff, glad for the excuse to hide his own face. Steve hasn't had much contact with the metal limb as far as Bucky can remember—not like Tony, who'd spent ages manipulating it for his scanners—but he doesn't hesitate in wrapping his fingers around the gloved hand to support the dead weight while he inserts the post into the holes in the cuff, efficient and impersonal. His dom finishes disappointingly quickly and gently lowers the arm to Bucky's side.

Bucky forces a smile and holds out his good hand, "Next?"

Steve doesn't take his hand like Bucky'd hoped. Instead he touches the cuff of Bucky's sleeve only as much as necessary, deftly inserting the jewelry and then releasing him promptly. Bucky twists his wrist and manages to catch Steve's forearm before he can pull away, and Steve goes absolutely still, staring at Bucky's good hand wrapped around him. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"Steve, I...." Bucky starts, unsure what he intends to say, just certain he can't bear to let Steve reinstate the distance between them. 

But his dom pulls sharply away when Tony claps him on the back. 

"Love, you look amazing!" Tony declares, slinging an arm over his husband's shoulders and reaching forward with his free hand to cup Bucky's cheek. "Steve and I will be the envy of the entire world!"

Tony's hand is calloused and strong, and Bucky melts instinctively into the contact for a moment before he remembers himself and quickly straightens up. He darts a nervous glance at Steve, waiting for him to say something to warn his husband away, to put himself between Bucky and Tony. 

Steve says nothing, pleasant smile firmly in place. There's something increasingly wrong with his whole demeanor, but Bucky reminds himself that there's no time to fix anything right now.

Forcing himself to turn back to Tony, he can hardly believe the warmth that's shining in his dom's eyes, even after what he did upstairs. It takes Bucky a few seconds to collect himself enough to reply, "I'm a poor complement to the pair of you."

Tony looks the part of the world-famous billionaire at last, well-groomed and sleek in a dark green suit. He belongs on the cover of a magazine like this. Bucky'd be afraid to approach him if it weren't for the way he's practically bouncing on his toes with excitement.

"The three of us," Tony corrects him. "We're gonna knock 'em dead!"

Behind his doms, Bucky spots Ms. Potts leaving the room. "Is it time?"

"A couple minutes yet. The reporters are all in position. Pep's going to lay down some ground rules."

Bucky nods nervously, and Steve asks quietly, "Are you going to be alright?"

"Of course," Bucky says, praying it's true.

"You're going to be great," Tony assures him. "Steve and I will handle most of the talking, and you don't have to answer any questions if you don't feel like it. C'mere," he gestures, finally releasing his husband, and Bucky steps toward him, confused.

Tony takes hold of Bucky's shoulders and turns him bodily, pulling him close to Tony's side, and Bucky belatedly realizes the three of them are now all visible in the mirror. The luxurious fabrics alone would be arresting even without the two celebrities wearing them, and the tableau of all three of them together is stunning. Tony and Steve each look like a million bucks, and he's forced to admit that, with the worst of his under-eye circles hidden, he doesn't look too bad, himself. The nicest he'd ever looked in his whole life was in his dress uniform, but the expensive suit Potts put him in blows that away. He’s fantasized about this for the past year, about attending a fancy dress event on their arms, being publicly acknowledged as theirs.

"There's no way they're ready for this much hotness," Tony breathes. In the reflection, his eyes are on Bucky's exposed throat.

Bucky glances at Steve, whose expression hasn't changed at all. But the new perspective of the mirror clarifies what was bothering him earlier. Steve's body is ramrod straight, hips and shoulders squared like he's standing at attention. He looks like a soldier going into battle.

Bucky's stomach turns, and he pulls out from under his dom's arm, unable to look any longer.

Tony stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Uh oh. Stay right there, tiger. I have to fix something." 

Bucky freezes, mystified, and then Tony's moving behind him, touching his hair and pulling on strands gingerly. After a brief flash of unease at having anyone so close to his vulnerable spot, Bucky realizes that Tony's arranging his overlong hair to conceal the shaved strip and the stitches.

He smiles in helpless gratitude for his dom's thoughtfulness, and that's when he sees it. The civilian in the mirror. With his expensive clothes, long hair, and bare throat, a dopey smile on his face, he's exactly the picture of a harmless civilian that Ms. Potts wants to sell to the world.

Smile slipping, Bucky straightens his shoulder to match Steve's posture and rigidly waits for Tony to finish his fussing.

"All right. Let's go make headlines," Tony says, and Bucky falls in behind him.

\---

Bucky enters the conference room on Tony's heels, aware of Steve close behind him. They mount the small stage and sit at a draped table under studio lights. As his eyes adjust, Bucky counts fewer than 20 people in the room, some of whom are holding cameras. There are two large television cameras that he resolves not to look at.

"On April 24th of last year, a great tragedy struck the citizens of Paris—and of the world," Steve says into a microphone in a clear, steady voice. "Although HYDRA did not claim responsibility for the attack, all evidence pointed toward The Three, HYDRA's top team of operatives. Three weeks later, on May 15, following a lead provided by SHIELD intelligence, the Avengers launched an attack on a secret HYDRA base in Carinthia, Austria. The objective of that mission was to capture the Three and bring them to justice."

Bucky keeps his pleasantly interested expression firmly in place while he strains to catch every word of the tale as though it were a mission briefing with lives depending on him. It's not such an outlandish thought.

"What we found were not the hardened criminals we expected. The Three were military trained, but they were also submissives who had been kidnapped, collared, and kept as slaves, forced to carry out missions against their will."

The press murmurs at this, and someone starts to ask a question, but Steve talks over them.

"Eleven months ago my husband and I announced that we had found—and lost—our true-pair submissive. In the heat of the battle against HYDRA, we were shocked to discover the sub we had dreamed of someday meeting, our other half, was a member of the Three."

There are more than a few quiet gasps from the reporters, and a few pairs of eyes narrow speculatively in Bucky's direction.

"HYDRA had had absolute control of him for years, but the newfound bond allowed him to resist his jailers, and he disobeyed their orders to fight back." Steve glosses over the attack itself, making no mention of the Three's counterattacks or Bucky's attempts on Iron Man's life. For all that he hates it, Bucky can't help but be impressed with Steve's careful choice of words as he paints him and his friends in an increasingly sympathetic light, so that even the Three's subsequent flight from the Avengers sounds like the understandable mistrust of abuse victims.

Steve skips the past year with the humble admission that his own search to bring HYDRA to justice had recently led him to walk into a trap, resulting in the deaths of two SHIELD agents, and him and five other agents taken prisoner. Showing no consideration for his own pride, Steve stresses that he had been incapacitated and rendered helpless, on his way to his execution.

"But our sub," and here Steve pauses and beams at Bucky, who marvels at Steve's acting, "who had been in hiding for months, intercepted word of my capture and raced to the rescue with no thought for his own safety."

Bucky mimics Steve's besotted smile and listens as his dom portrays him as far more heroic than he really was, boasting of the lives saved and villains brought to justice rather than Bucky's attempt to beat the HYDRA doctor to death with his bare hand.

Steve pauses dramatically after his tale, then says, "It gives us great pleasure today to introduce our true-pair, bonded submissive, James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps." 

The cameras swing his way, and Tony's hand comes to rest on his right shoulder. Bucky suppresses a shiver and keeps his public face locked in. 

Steve shares highlights from Bucky's career, painting him as a brave, patriotic submissive who was lost in action and declared dead, and Bucky can feel the eyes of the room burning into him. He can imagine what they're thinking, all the familiar abuses that so often go hand-in-hand with sub slavery. Goosebumps prickle his skin under the suit.

Tony takes over the narrative, and if Bucky expected to be more comfortable with his part of the story, he's sadly mistaken. Steve's focus on Bucky's heroism has nothing on Tony's flair for hyperbole. His dominant sells the Romance of the Century just as promised, gleefully bringing up the tabloid headlines that had speculated that theirs was a tale of star-crossed lovers. A bond freeing a sub from slavers—it's positively Shakespearean.

Bucky digs his fingertips into the tabletop as Tony lightly squeezes his shoulder and bicep while alluding to the torment HYDRA had subjected Bucky to, how he's such a brave submissive to have withstood such abuse.

Eventually Tony's speech ends with the statement that the Starks are working with SHIELD to clear the names of the Three, who are clearly victims deserving pity, not punishment. Bucky feels his smile twist, and he forces it back into shape in time to turn an adoring look on Tony just as his doms open the floor to questions. 

"Are you saying you know the whereabouts of the rest of HYDRA's Three? Are they here in Stark Tower?"

So much for romance distracting from the wanted terrorists in the attic. Bucky concentrates on keeping his breathing steady despite the alarm that shoots through him.

"They're here," Tony confirms shortly. "SHIELD is debriefing them at the Tower. They're under guard _for their own safety_ until their stories can be told."

"All those deaths—and the protesters outside—shouldn't there be a trial?" 

"I don't believe in putting victims on trial, no," Tony snaps.

"But how can you be certain they were helpless?" The man presses. "Is there any proof?"

"Proof?" Tony all but shouts, and Bucky startles. "We cut a control collar out of his _spine!_ What, do you need to see the stitches?"

Bucky leans out of the way of Tony's gesturing hand, trying not to flinch despite every muscle in his body coiling tight, ready to bolt. He'd known going public would be invasive. Bad enough he's on display, forced to endure Tony's possessive touches, but he's not sure he can tolerate baring his scars for the cameras.

"We've provided evidence of the Three's innocence to the authorities," Steve cuts in calmly. "The evidence is classified and must remain confidential."

A woman stands next and asks, "Sergeant Barnes, why did you run from your dominants?"

Bucky flinches at the direct question and shoots Tony a helpless look while he looks for something to say that will align with the ridiculous fiction Steve's already spun.

"Next question," Steve says brusquely, and Tony's hand lands atop his.

Another reporter asks, "Did you see the Starks' message while you were in hiding? Why didn't you come forward then?"

"I saw it," Bucky says slowly, clearing his throat when it comes out hoarsely. "I was scared for my friends at that time, and none of us were ready to trust dominants. But talking with them...helped."

Two more reporters spring to their feet at that, racing to ask the obvious follow-up question, "Then you were in contact before last week's rescue of Captain America?" 

Bucky nods and hopes he's answering correctly. "I spoke with them on the phone. Many times." 

A reporter asks for details on how they stayed in touch, but Tony dismisses the question with an impatient, "Irrelevant," and calls for the next question.

Steve fields a question about whether Iron Man and Captain America will return to the Avengers, giving an affirmative answer while remaining hazy on the timeline. 

A woman in the back asks, "Has the U.S. military been informed of the Sergeant's survival? If he is cleared of the charges, will he be returning to active service?"

The question takes Bucky by surprise, but Steve answers readily, "Like many prisoners of war, the Three have been subjected to more violence than anyone should be, least of all submissives. They aren't interested in more violence in their lives. They wish to live quietly, in peace." 

Bucky should be relieved by Steve's words; it's exactly what he and his friends had sworn. But his doms have never _asked_ , and he bristles helplessly at the phrasing, the subtle implication that his future is nothing more than a house sub. Bucky tugs at the open collar of his shirt, suddenly desperately uncomfortable in his picture-perfect civilian guise. It occurs to him that both of his dominants are wearing ties, and he pulls his smile wide to hide a scowl. He'd spent his adult life making sure he'd never be seen as lesser, but here he is, the embodiment of _vulnerable_ , _grateful_ , _victim_. 

Bucky is still wrestling with his temper when a series of questions about the bond itself are put forward, so he's glad to let Tony answer them.

Tony plays his part with aplomb, pushing the fairy tale romance angle while keeping the timing and circumstances vague. He expertly avoids all mention of the hasty circumstances of their bonding, the fact that it's a bond of convenience and necessity rather than love. 

Bucky's watching Tony closely, which is why he notices that his dominant frowns seconds before the next question is even asked. Turning to scan the audience, Bucky sees that a young man wearing the credentials of a semi-respectable tabloid has stood up. 

"Mr. Stark, you have a well-documented history of, hmm, 'playing the field,'" the man starts, his tone dripping with innuendo.

Tony juts his chin out as he responds, "Hardly surprising for an unbonded dominant, but those days are behind—"

"You yourself stated, on multiple occasions, that you were, quote, 'not interested in settling down with one submissive when there's a whole world of them out there, each more beautiful than the last.'" His voice rises at the end, turning the quote itself into a question to be answered. 

Cameras begin clicking rapidly in the ensuing hush, and Bucky frowns. Throwing Tony's playboy past in his face is in poor taste, but it's hardly surprising. 

But Tony's grip tightens and his voice deepens with feeling, his eyes sweeping the room as he says, "I _used_ to say those things. I won't deny it. But that was before I met James. Listen, 95 percent of celebrity relationships crash and burn, and you know why? Because when you've got money or power, you either learn pretty quickly that you can't trust anyone, or you wake up one morning and everything's gone."

Steve shifts in his seat on Bucky's other side, and suddenly Bucky knows something's about to go terribly wrong.

"I'm not gonna lie—the money and the power are fun." Tony pauses for the obligatory chuckle from the reporters. "But they can't love you back. That's what makes the true-pair bond so special. It's about finding your perfect match, the person—or persons—you can trust with your heart because they'll always love you back. You never have to wake up alone, you never have to feel used, because you're in it together. My life changed forever the day Steve and I bonded; it changed for the _amazing_. And now we've got our sub— _our_ sub—and all the gorgeous submissives in the world don't hold a candle to how good that certainty feels."

By the time he finishes, Bucky's gone cold all over. He keeps his eyes glued to the table in front of him because he doesn't dare turn his head and meet Steve's gaze. He doesn't dare—but he can't help himself. It feels like it takes minutes, his head turning inexorably toward the dominant who's always seen right through him. He braces himself for judgement.

But Steve's not looking at him. He's watching Tony, a sad quirk to his lips, and oh god, Bucky wishes they were alone; he would fling his arms around their knees and beg forgiveness.

He _can't_. Not now. Because he _is_ using Tony. He's used him for precisely this moment, this public proclamation of the Three's innocence, and he owes it to his friends to sell it, or everything has been worthless.

Swallowing down bile, Bucky smiles sappily and turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with Tony's. 

Alight with pride and an adoration that borders on reverence, Tony leans over to kiss his cheek and nuzzle his ear, and Bucky closes his eyes and ducks his head, playing the bashful sub while he curses himself in six languages. How had he failed to realize that Tony'd already bought into the very fairy tale he claimed to be selling? 

The worst part, somehow, is that Bucky doesn't even have to try hard to feign happiness. The rasp of Tony's beard, the scent of skin-warmed cologne, his very proximity all set some kind of joy bubbling in Bucky's chest when he has no right to such a feeling. He never did.

As though from a great distance, he hears Steve wrapping up the press conference while Tony murmurs sweetly in his ear. Steve recaps the talking points of their statements, ending on the pronouncement that the Starks intend to protect the Three so that no one can take them away and unjustly imprison or punish them. 

The reporters murmur and nod sympathetically, and victory tastes fouler than the leather of a HYDRA boot.

Bucky allows himself to be urged to his feet and, when prompted, poses for photos between his doms, smiling and smiling and playing the Starks' loving, loyal, bonded submissive, who'd never use them, never betray their trust. Steve is still on his bad side, a hand on Bucky's dead shoulder their only point of contact because he can't bear to touch Bucky anymore but has to for the press, to protect Bucky and his friends, and Steve would jump on a grenade to protect a submissive, wouldn't he? 

The click of the cameras continues long past the point that Bucky's face aches from smiling and his eyes burn from trying not to blink at the flashes. He's trapped before the eyes of the public, the mastermind of the Élysée Palace Massacre hanging on Tony Stark's arm and dressed like Tony's dream come true.

Finally the door to the hallway opens, and the Stark security team beckons them. On his way out, Bucky catches a glimpse of Ms. Potts watching from behind the last row of reporters. Her expression is still blandly professional, but her mouth is a thin, red line that betrays her worry. Bucky stumbles, overwhelmed by deja vu. He's seen that exact same expression before.

No wonder Ms. Potts's lecture reminded him of Natasha. 

Tasha'd warned him that first day, but he'd dismissed it. She'd told him that he would someday hurt Clint. In the end, she'd been helpless to prevent it happening, had had to stand by and watch while her prediction came true.

It's come true all over again. He always ends up hurting the people he cares for.

Even before the door of the Green Room shuts, Tony's dragging Bucky into an embrace, arms tightening vice-like around him in thoughtless possession, saying, "Thank god that's over."

For just an instant Bucky forgets himself in the familiar, dueling sensations of alarm at the sudden contact and desperation for it to continue. But a moment later he shoves Tony away with all the force he can manage.

Tony grunts in surprise as they split apart, and then the room is silent, all three of them frozen in place.

Head cocked in confusion, Tony reaches for him, saying, "Sweetheart? Are you okay?"

Bucky steps out of reach, saying, "Don't call me that."

Tony doesn't seem to hear him. Instead he advances slowly, saying in a gentle tone, "I'm sorry, I didn't think. Of course you're stressed right now. I'll be more careful, I promise." He's reaching out again, one hand stretching implacably toward Bucky's cheek.

Retreating another step, Bucky glances at Steve. 

Captain Stark is still just inside the door, shoulders once more rigidly at attention, hands in fists at his sides. His face is blank—no, it's _unsurprised_ , and Bucky winces and shakes his head at the unspoken, undeniable accusation.

"Bucky, love, it's alright now. I promise, everything's going to be alright," Tony's saying softly, and every tender word excoriates him, reminds him how happy he'd felt in Tony's arms, how he can't help wanting that closeness even now. 

"Please, tell us what's wrong. We can fix it," Tony continues, so close now, and Bucky can't allow himself to have it ever again.

"It's not real! Stop trying to— It's never _been_ real, can't you see that?" he snaps.

Tony pauses. "Sweetheart—"

"I said, _Don't call me that!_ " Bucky shouts.

Tony retreats several steps, but Bucky can tell by his eyes that he's only startled. He doesn't _get_ it yet. So when Tony opens his mouth, Bucky talks quickly, determined to put an end to the too-tempting offers of comfort once and for all.

"Don't call me _sweetheart_. Or _love_. Or the million other ways you treat me like your pet, like your precious rescued _darling_. I'm a criminal, Tony. A murderer. You think you know me? You don't know half of what I'm capable of!" Tony's shaking his head, but Steve just looks grave. "I seduced you. I _used_ you." 

"That's not true. That's not true, you love us. When we were together—"

"When you touch me, I want to scream," Bucky says, forcing ice into his tone. It's only half of the truth, but Bucky can't _have_ the other half.

And finally Tony flinches. Steve catches him under the elbows, murmuring something as he steadies his husband. 

It hurts to twist the knife, but Bucky has to be sure this takes. Tony must never trust him again, or Bucky will end up hurting him worse. "Steve didn't fall for my act—that's why I had to get you away from him. He's always known he couldn't trust me, but you, you were _easy_."

"You've made your point," Steve says, hands tightening protectively on Tony's arms.

Tony slowly turns to face his husband, and for once Steve's pitying expression isn't directed at Bucky. It's still terrible to look at.

Tony turns back to him, and there's a minute twitch of his lip, then his eyebrows, and then, with a roll of his shoulders, his entire stance changes. The hurt slides from his face, replaced with the famous sneer Bucky's only ever seen Tony Stark wear in televised congressional hearings. Only in its absence does Bucky realize how much warmth Tony'd always shown him.

"I suppose congratulations are due to both of you," he says in a brittle voice, stepping away from his husband. "Go ahead and gloat, Steve. I said I wouldn't believe it 'til I saw it. Well. You were right."

Steve's eyes turn impossibly sadder. "Don't." 

"Let me have this, Steve. For my father's sake. He'd be laughing himself sick watching me right now. Taken in by a sub—a terrorist, no less. Way to live down to the family name. Christ, I need a drink."

Bucky watches in helpless silence while Tony rubs a hand over his face. He hadn't expected this _stranger_.

After a moment, Tony turns on Bucky. "So, you did it. You've got us, bonded and everything. Well played."

"I tried to tell you," Bucky blurts. "All year I warned you I was no good. But you wouldn't listen. You brought us here and—and handed us over to SHIELD to interrogate. I needed safety for my friends, and you wouldn't do what it took to guarantee it. What was I supposed to do?"

"Not _trust_ us, obviously," Tony snarls bitterly.

The rebuke stings. "How was I supposed to—"

"That's enough," Steve says firmly, putting himself between Bucky and his husband. He's vibrating with tension, hands clenching like it's a struggle to keep from grabbing Bucky and dragging him out of the room.

And Bucky can't help staring at those hands, desperate for their hold one last time, but he shakes his head to banish the thought. Steve _should_ protect Tony from him. Tony's his husband; Bucky's just the criminal sub who took advantage of them both.

"I think you should head back upstairs now," Steve says, and Bucky smiles to keep from wincing.

"Sent to my room, huh? Am I grounded?" he asks, attempting bravado but failing miserably.

Steve blinks, then answers in a surprisingly gentle voice, "You're as free to move about as you have been. This doesn't change that."

Bucky turns his back on them, grateful for the excuse to hide the pain he can't keep from his face.

\---

He should never have tried to be with them. 

Bucky steps back and throws another punch, slamming his fist into the heavy bag with a dull thud.

This morning he'd felt guilty for what he did to Steve, but he'd thought, deep down, that he could still keep Tony somehow. But apparently by bonding with Tony the very way his dom wanted, Bucky'd managed to wound him worse than when he'd fired an anti-tank round through his back. 

Another little sound bursts from his lips as he hits the bag again, but he tells himself it's just a grunt. His lungs are burning, his shoulder on fire from the prolonged exertion. 

He still wants them. Despite everything he's done to hurt them and drive them away, if one of them offered a single sign of forgiveness, he'd—

Bucky stumbles with exhaustion and catches himself against the bag, cursing the useless weight on his left side. He lines himself up again. 

He can't. He mustn't. He'd only end up doing them more damage. He's sworn an oath to always put his friends first. Compared to all the ways he's compromised himself for their sakes, today's sins are nothing. It sickens him to know—in his very bones—that he'd do worse again without hesitation. He should never have brought such evil into his dominants' lives.

Can he really call himself any better than Mentallo? Bad enough he used the bond like a compulsion to break Steve. But he leveraged Tony's love to bend him to his will as well—and he'd enjoyed parts of it. Bucky shudders in horror remembering that moment of happiness at Tony's proximity in front of the reporters.

" _Lapushka_ ," comes Natasha's voice from behind him, and Bucky startles and stumbles again.

"Hey! Easy there," Clint says, catching him by the shoulders. "Jesus, you're sweat through. Come on, come sit down."

Bucky wipes the sweat from his eyes with the bottom of his shirt while they lead him over to a bench. He'd thought he was alone on this floor. He looks around, but the rest of the gym is still dark; they hadn't turned on any lights when they approached. 

"Okay, spill," Clint says when Bucky's seated. "What's going on?"

Still panting for breath, Bucky gasps, "We, uh. We made a statement. Publicly. The whole world knows about us now."

"That press conference the Starks were planning?" Clint crouches before him and examines his hand briefly, hissing in concern at the damage. Bucky hadn't bothered wrapping his knuckles; now they're a bloody mess, long-since gone numb. "I saw a kit by the elevator, hang on."

Bucky looks up when Clint walks away and finds Natasha standing before him, grimly expectant. He drops his eyes. 

"I did what I had to," he says quietly. 

Rage flashes across her face, and she spits a string of Russian obscenities, turning and punching the bag a couple of times herself while Bucky winces. Her outburst only lasts a few seconds; she's got herself back under control before Clint gets back from the other side of the gym with the first aid kit.

Now Clint's eyeing them both oddly. "So you're bonded now. Right? That was always the plan. Why're you both freaked out?"

Bucky swallows. He may as well tell Clint and get it over with. "Steve wouldn't do it. Not willingly." 

Clint sits hard at Bucky's feet. "Shit," he whispers, clearly grasping the implications of Bucky's statement.

"And Tony...." Bucky starts, but he can't find the words.

"You manipulated him," Natasha states flatly. "I told you not to. I _told_ you it only makes things worse." Her voice breaks with a hopelessness that reopens the pain Bucky's been trying to block out.

"You did," Bucky agrees, thinking not about yesterday's warning but of her words the day they met. "You always know best." 

Miserable silence stretches between them.

"Fix it," Natasha commands abruptly.

Bucky shakes his head. "I told them I don't want them."

Clint pours peroxide on the wounds, and Bucky hisses. "Idiot," Clint mutters. "They would have done anything for you. You think doms like that are easy to come by?"

Bucky frowns. He'd expected anger from Natasha, but not from Clint. "It's done," he says quellingly.

Clint huffs and busies himself with the kit, pulling out clean gauze. He hesitates for a moment, hands suspended in mid air, then says, eyes on his work, "Look, I know we don't talk about it. But maybe if you told—"

Bucky snatches his hand away. "No!"

He'll never tell anyone about it. He'll find a way tomorrow, some way to keep his mouth shut. Now that his friends are safe, he'll confess to any degree of villainy Pandit wants rather than admit that.

"Fuck, _fine_ ," Clint snaps. He glares up at Bucky long enough that Bucky extends his hand again for Clint’s ministrations. "Nat, what do we do? How does he fix this?"

Unsurprisingly, she says nothing. There's no possible solution now.

"It's hopeless," Bucky says, shifting uncomfortably. "Just leave it alone."

"Romanoff, come on," Clint prompts irritably.

She sighs. "Maybe truthfulness _is_ the best option?" she agrees tentatively. "Maybe they would forgive you if they knew more about it."

"That wouldn't fix anything! What are you, crazy?" Bucky objects.

"I don't know!" she shouts explosively. "I don't know how this works! I don't know the first thing about forgiveness! You should have left them ignorant. So what if you used them? Stark was happy; the Captain would have come around for his sake. Now you've blown your cover. I don't know how you work back from this." She cuts herself off and turns her back, breathing deeply.

Bucky watches, shocked by the display of vulnerability he's never seen from her.

"They'll be watching for more manipulation. The truth is all you have left. Maybe it's good for something," she adds in clipped, matter of fact phrases like she's only barely under control.

Clint reaches out, gazing up at her with soft eyes. "Tasha—"

"Don't!" she says sharply, losing her calm. "Don't touch me right now, _solnyshko!_ "

Bucky and Clint stare wide-eyed at each other as she strides away. When the elevator doors close, signaling her departure, Clint picks up a roll of gauze and wordlessly begins wrapping it around Bucky's hand.

After another minute, Clint says quietly, "We didn't bring you here for this. You wanted them. You were going to be happy." 

Bucky snorts. "Plans fall through," he quips acidly. There's a hollow ache in his heart when he thinks of how he'd used those same words to warn his doms against delaying.

Clint sits back and looks at Bucky for long seconds. "You know.... I don't mind if you talk about it tomorrow. If that's why you won't—"

"I'm tired," Bucky says to silence him. "I'm going to bed." He moves to stand up, but he must be more exhausted than he thought. 

Clint catches him when he stumbles. "Don't think I'm letting this drop, Barnes," he warns.

Bucky says nothing, and they make their way to the elevator in silence.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout and repairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in this chapter for references to past sexual abuse and rape, as well as victim blaming and bigotry by an OC. If these are triggers for you, please check the notes at the end of the chapter before you read.

Bucky ignores his surroundings in favor of watching his dominants' backs as they lead the way down the familiar hallway. They haven't said a word to him all morning, and he sternly reminds himself that this is what he wanted when he tore their relationship apart yesterday.

When they stop short, however, he peers between them to discover Agent Hill blocking the door to the interrogation room with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Maria," Steve nods warily.

"Gentlemen," she answers with a nod. "Congratulations on your performance."

Her tone is far from congratulatory, and Bucky can't help but flinch at her word choice as Steve shifts to stand closer to his husband.

"You made quite the splash—attracted a lot of attention. Everyone's watching now. Just like you wanted."

"Why are you here?" Tony asks sharply.

"Your stunt worked. Thanks to heightened public scrutiny, most organizations have backed off their demands for custody. They're willing to wait and see what we come up with before they make their next move."

Bucky tamps down the swell of relief, because it can't be this simple. She'd said—

"Most," Steve echoes flatly.

Hill cocks her head and shrugs. "Bombshells tend to cause collateral damage. Stark knows all about that, don't you?" Tony stiffens, and she continues, "You made some powerful enemies yesterday. Ones even Fury can't protect you from."

"Spit it out."

"The World Security Council isn't happy. They've sent a representative to oversee the interviews from here on out."

"The hell they have! I don't want them in my building!"

"That wasn't part of the deal," Steve growls.

"The deal changed when you went public." When Tony opens his mouth to protest again, she adds, "None of us can afford to antagonize them, Stark. Play nice, or your guests will be removed from your custody."

In the silence that follows, Bucky's stomach drops. After what he did, maybe his dominants should take her up on that offer.

When they don't respond, she steps aside and opens the door. Inside the room, an unfamiliar man rises to his feet. 

"James," he calls with a smile that makes Bucky's skin crawl. "I've been so eager to meet you. And you must be Clint. And Natalia."

Agent Hill hustles his doms down the corridor to the observation room, and Bucky and his friends file in to take their usual seats at the table. 

The stranger is tall and slim in an expensive suit. The pleasant expression sits well on his narrow face, but Bucky knows better than to expect friendliness in this room.

"Councilor Landis will be conducting our remaining interviews," Pandit says, and Bucky finally notices the SHIELD agent. His chair has been moved to the corner of the table, yielding center stage to the new interrogator. "Councilor, if I might make a suggestion, you may want to pick up where we left off yesterday."

It was too much to hope he'd have forgotten. Bucky sets his jaw and braces himself for the onslaught of dangerous questions.

"Oh?" Landis asks absently, still smiling benignly at them.

"I was asking Sergeant Barnes here how he was able to resist Mentallo's orders, when all prior testimony had implied—"

"Waste of time," Landis says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Of course they didn't resist. They followed orders like all good little subs."

Bucky doesn't bother to hide his scowl at the bigotry in the man's casual tone.

Pandit shakes his head. "I'm not sure that's entirely accurate, sir—"

"You don't collect submissives for any supposed skills in the field, Agent. HYDRA wanted some playthings for their officers, and they lucked into trained subs. Once you've got them in hand, it's not hard to persuade them to comply, you know. Tell me," he says, directing his attention back at the three of them, "How quickly did you beg for their attention? How many days before you were killing for HYDRA?" 

They say nothing.

The man tilts his head and taps the table, but his mild expression doesn't change. "I'm going to need you to start speaking up now. Maybe you haven't heard: Unlike SHIELD, I'm not here to kowtow to the Starks. I'm here to get the truth, and that's what I'm going to do."

"What truth is that?" Natasha asks.

"That you collaborated willingly. That you betrayed your countries in exchange for dominants' attention, like any weak-willed sub." Landis looks her up and down, his conversational tone disconcerting when he says, "Pretty little Natalia. The Russians put a lot of years and money into your training; far more than I'd expect anyone to spend on a glorified blow up doll."

Bucky bares his teeth, but Natasha's poker face is masterful. He tries to follow her example and hide his anger, but the past year of freedom has left him out of practice.

"Truth be told, I'm surprised you can still go under at all. I'd think it'd be fucked out of you by now."

"Watch your goddamn mouth," Clint snarls, and Landis's attention swings his way.

"Clint Barton," he drawls, still smiling. "The easiest lay in the US Armed Forces."

Clint flinches.

Bucky sucks in an angry breath, but Natasha's hand on his thigh below the table keeps him silent.

"So addicted to submission that you signed your body over to the Army to get access to all the doms you could handle. I doubt you've gone a whole month without it your entire life. There's no way you weren't groveling for HYDRA in record time. Speaking of...the first man you killed for your master," he says, tapping his chin contemplatively. 

"He was a HYDRA goon. He deserved to die," Clint blurts, too fast.

"Yes, that's what I thought: It was in exchange for a drop, wasn't it? I'm thinking Mentallo put you on your knees afterward and called you his 'good boy.' According to your own testimony, that was barely a couple weeks after your capture." Landis tsks in mild disapproval, and Clint goes ashen.

Landis is dead wrong. It wasn't Clint's fault what was done to him; dominants had abused him all his life. Clint's made great strides since Bucky met him. Bucky won't stand by and watch another smug dominant tear his friend back down.

Sensing his intention to interfere, Natasha digs her nails deep into his leg, pinning Bucky in his chair. He shoots her a glare, but her eyes are shifting between Landis and Agent Pandit.

The councilor's voice is chillingly pleasant when he says, "How long's it been for you, boy? You must be hurting for it bad—you reek of desperation. I could help you out. Would you like that, Clint? What would you do to be _my_ good boy?"

Clint shrinks away, head jerking side to side in horror.

Pandit intervenes even as Bucky's drawing breath to protest. "Councilor Landis, that would be highly inappropriate—"

"I've seen the transcripts, Agent; you've been handling these three with kid gloves and getting nowhere. Let me do my job."

While Landis is speaking, Pandit touches his fingers to his ear. Whatever he hears replaces his frown with blank composure. He sits back with exaggerated slowness. "Of course, Councilor," he says stiffly. "Carry on."

Bucky darts an incredulous glance at the silent mirror and then at Pandit. 

Landis's attention shifts back to Clint, and his smile widens. " _My good little boy_ —" he croons, voice deepening and _shifting_.

_Fuck playing nice._

"Leave him the fuck alone!" Bucky shouts, throwing caution to the wind and leaping to his feet. "You don't speak to him. Not like that. Not at all. You speak to _me_."

Landis's head swivels slowly in his direction, snakelike, sweet expression fixed in place and eyes unblinking. Bucky feels a jolt of misgiving.

"Sit down," the man says softly. His voice has returned to normal, but the undercurrent of dominance still echoes in the small room.

"Leave them alone," Bucky insists, desperate bravado all that's keeping his knees locked as dread turns his internal organs to water.

"Or what?" Landis asks with an insincere chuckle. "I'm the one with the power here, James. You've got nothing. You think the public will protect you? They won't be so in love with you if I release the recording of you confessing to the Élysée Massacre. They'll storm this building and tear you and your little friends to pieces. That's not what you want, is it? Answer me, please."

The man's even tone makes the threat far too plausible. Bucky lowers his eyes and swallows. "No," he finally murmurs.

"'No' what?"

He hesitates. "No, sir."

"Apologize and ask to be allowed to stay for the remainder of this session."

Bucky doesn't dare look up. A scab on his knuckle splits when he makes a fist, a bright flash of pain. 

"Get the guards," Landis tells Pandit with a disappointed sigh. "Put him in solitary."

All the air rushes out of him. "I'm sorry!" Bucky gasps hurriedly. He can't leave his friends alone with this man. God only knows what he'd do to Clint. "I'm sorry, sir. Please. Please, may I stay?"

Damn his pride anyway; it's only ever hurt those around him.

Councilor Landis stands slowly, and Bucky holds his breath, keeping his eyes down. In his peripheral vision, Pandit shifts nervously.

"Sit down," the councilor says, and Bucky obeys promptly. "James, James, James. What am I to make of you? Orphaned at age 14. Enlisted at the age of 18 and made special ops by 21. I've reached out to your past commanding officers; they were shocked by the news. None of them ever thought you'd sell out your country. They're completely mystified.

"But not me. I've seen your type before. There's only one detail in your file that matters: You didn't express as submissive until you were 16." Bucky twitches despite himself, unnerved by the thoroughness of the man's information, delivered in a mock-mournful voice, "Such a pity. Late dynamic expression often results in attitude problems. A lot of subs don't handle it well."

When Landis leans close to speak in Bucky's ear, waves of dominance swirl around him and make it hard to breathe, for all that his voice stays deceptively kind. "I've got you figured out, Jamie-boy. You're one of those self-hating subs who talks big, but deep down you're gagging for it. HYDRA must have been a dream come true. Plenty of dominants to make you take it, and you could blame everyone but yourself." 

The rest of the scabs on his knuckles split, his fist shaking below the table as he holds himself still, head bowed and unprotesting the whispered insults.

"Sir," he says neutrally.

"There, that's better," the councilor says, settling back in his chair with a pleased hum. "You have to build a rapport with them, Agent. Subs respond well to a little sweetness with their discipline."

"I'll remember that, Councilor," Pandit says, watching Bucky with an odd expression. There's a tick in his jaw Bucky's never noticed before, but he shows no sign of interfering again.

Bucky's on his own.

He takes a deep breath and pulls himself together. He's degraded himself for all sorts of doms in order to protect his friends. Landis's type—sly dominants who lull submissives into a false sense of security with sweet words and seemingly harmless demands—are worse than the straightforward bullies. But Bucky's experienced; he can keep a dom like Landis occupied for a few hours.

"I understand you were quite the favorite of Paul Ebersol."

Bucky smiles grimly, unsurprised by the choice of topic. He'd vowed to never speak of Ebersol, especially not where his doms could hear. But the Starks aren't his anymore—not after what he did. They already know that he used them; letting them learn some of the other vile things he's done will help cement the distance between them. 

"He built my replacement arm," Bucky begins slowly. "The first time I woke up, I was in his lab. I was pretty messed up, busted ribs and everything, but he wanted me close by so he could—" Bucky's voice fails him at a rush of memories: _days of unremitting pain_ — _cold metal hands sliding down his naked torso to_ — _hot breath in his ear_ — _laughter_. He fights off the wave of revulsion and finishes "—could make adjustments to it." 

Landis's eyes light up with pleasure. Bucky holds his gaze and lets him see his flinch.

"How often did you go under for him?"

"Rarely." Landis scoffs at that, so Bucky elaborates, "Ebersol was a sadist. He didn't want me to like it."

"What kinds of things didn't he want you to like?" When Bucky doesn't answer fast enough, he adds, "I can go back to talking to your friends if you'd prefer."

A familiar jolt of adrenalin hastens his tongue. "No, sir! I'll be good, sir."

Landis smiles, head cocked like he's listening to Bucky's racing heart. "See that you are."

Bucky talks. It's difficult at first, especially relating the horrors that took place in Ebersol's lab, but the longer he talks the easier the words come, descriptions of the man's fixation, the constant predation, countless instances of the sadistic games he'd play, using the others to get to Bucky—

"Sounds like you had him wrapped around your finger."

"What?" Bucky startles, blinking himself back to the present. It's hard to think past the pulse pounding in his ears. His hand hurts, and he looks down to find it clenched and shaking by his knee. He hadn't noticed the blood trickling down his fingers, and now they're wet and sticky. Dismayed, he hides his hand behind his back.

"SHIELD's HYDRA captives have been most cooperative; I know all about the bounty he put on your head, James. You made quite the impact, for him to offer so much to get you back alive and in good condition."

Bucky shivers involuntarily at the thought of being returned to his first tormenter. What would it take to persuade Landis not to do it?

"They told me so many stories about the favor he'd show you. That bionic arm, for instance. I hear he spent hours working on it every week, even when it seemed to be working fine." Bucky's breath catches in his throat at the sudden, visceral memory of the table with the straps, but Landis doesn't seem to notice. "How he'd invite you to spend the night in his quarters; a lavish treat for a mere prisoner, eh?

"You had quite a bit more sway with Ebersol than you'd like us to believe. I think you were sweet for him. You asked him for favors, like a night in a softer bed. You enjoyed having his attention all to yourself; you were right where you always wanted to be. I'll bet you sold yourself for the drop just like Clint did."

Bucky flinches from the accusations. He wasn't sweet. He _wasn't_. He only obeyed Ebersol because—

There's a sound from behind the mirror, something brief and indistinct, like a muffled shout.

Landis's lips curve cruelly, his eyes going half-lidded with reptilian satisfaction, and _oh, that bastard_. 

Bucky shakes his head to clear it, finds that he'd gone hunched and cringing sometime during the interrogation. But it's not a real interrogation at all; this entire session is nothing more than punishment—not just for Bucky, but for his dominants, too. Agent Hill was right; they'd made enemies by going public. What better way to hurt the Starks than to humiliate their submissive in front of them?

And Bucky'd been stupid enough to give him plenty of ammunition. His stomach turns when he thinks of the things he's said, how his words could be interpreted, the images they must conjure. Had the reality been any better? Does the fact that Bucky didn't want it make the image of him on his knees beside a HYDRA officer, dopey smile on his face and hands held docilely behind his back, any less damning?

Tony'd adored him yesterday. He'd thrown himself into saving Bucky and his friends from the wires in their necks, worked tirelessly on a replacement arm for him. Even with the knife Bucky's driven into his back, this recitation has got to be killing him.

"Tell me more about what went on the times you met with Ebersol in his quarters."

Bucky's caused his doms too much pain already. He won't let his past hurt them more. He takes a deep breath and raises his chin, flexes his fingers and smiles at the clean pain. 

"You know what? Fuck you."

Anger flickers for just a moment behind Landis's friendly mask, and a wave of dominant wrath hammers at Bucky, but the man barely raises his voice when he replies. "Well, if you want to talk about fucking, let's talk about _fucking_ , James. How about the time you let Ebersol screw you on camera in front of Supreme Hydra?"

Bucky gasps, can't help glancing at the mirror, and Landis leans closer like he smells blood.

"Do you think we won't find that video if we search long enough? Maybe we'll hold a press conference of our own and air it. Hell of a PR disaster that sex tape will make, you face down on the console, begging for it—"

The mirror explodes inward in a spray of glass. Bucky watches as though in slow motion as a chair lands on the floor, and a heartbeat later Captain America is leaping through the opening. He's marveling at the incongruity of Steve's civilian attire on the superhero when everything jumps abruptly into real time, and his dom has Landis by the lapels, body-slamming him back onto the table.

Bucky stares helplessly at the way Steve's back and shoulders move and flex with every hard breath. And then Natasha's grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him out of his chair, back away from the struggle, and finally Bucky registers Steve shouting in Landis's face.

"You son of a bitch—" The councilor struggles in his grasp, and Steve shoves him back onto the table hard enough to knock his head. " _Son of a bitch!_ I should tear out your fucking tongue, you bastard. Don't speak to him—don't even _look_ at him. You come into my house and talk to my sub that way! I ought to kill you here and now!"

Landis catches his breath and laughs despite his disadvantageous position and obvious discomfort. "You've done it now, Captain. The Council will hear about this."

Steve wraps the long fingers of one hand around Landis's throat and slowly squeezes until the man makes an odd, choked-off sound and falls silent. Satisfied that the councilor is done talking, Steve turns his head just enough to glare at Pandit. His expression is hard, his eyes wild. "Get them out of here. Send them upstairs."

"Agent Hill?" Pandit asks calmly, not taking his wary gaze off Steve. 

The ranking SHIELD agent is leaning through the broken mirror, scowling with distaste. "Fine. Get them out of here."

Pandit nods politely at Bucky and his friends, moving ahead of them to open the door.

"Captain, please stop strangling Councilor Landis," Hill sighs.

"If Fury won't stand up to these WSC bastards, I'll do it myself," Steve spits.

"You've made this harder than it needed to be," she replies.

Bucky's still watching Steve's large hands. The one not cutting off Landis' air is fisted so tightly in the man's lapel that Bucky can _see_ the righteous anger surging through him. He's never seen Steve like this, so primal, so close to losing control.

He's imagined it, though.

Natasha pushes him toward the door, but he cranes his neck to keep his eyes on his dominant as long as possible.

"The Council wants to send us a message, right?" Steve's growls. "Well, here's one you can take back with you: Try us. And just see what happens."

"You'll regret this," Landis gasps distantly, and then they're out of earshot, Pandit pressing the button to summon the waiting elevator.

\---

The faux-Arabian soundtrack of _Aladdin_ sweeps through the room, promising light-hearted adventure, but Bucky pays it no mind.

Clint and Natasha are curled up on the far couch, seemingly engrossed in the movie. Clint had been jittery and standoffish after the debacle downstairs, but now, with Natasha's nails raking through his hair, he appears calm. 

Bucky should be watching with them, but he can't stop replaying this morning over and over. The shouting, the violence...Steve's hands white with strain.... 

He shakes his head to cut off that train of thought. It didn't mean what he wants it to mean. Steve would have done as much for any sub. It doesn't mean he's forgiven Bucky. 

But Steve hadn't leapt to Clint's defense when Councilor Landis was pressuring him. Yet when Landis came after Bucky he'd been nearly out of control—like his anger was personal. And Steve had claimed Bucky as _his_. Clearly he wasn't thinking rationally at the time, but Bucky's breathing quickens when he entertains the possibility of Steve still wanting him on any level.

He knows he shouldn't even consider it. He ended things with them yesterday for their own good. They'll never forgive him.

Especially not after the things they learned about him today. Landis had dragged out a litany of depravity, all those times Bucky'd put himself in the HYDRA doms' hands in order to divert their attention, had begged on his knees for the privilege of fulfilling any humiliating command. How he'd submitted to Ebersol's foul caresses, climbed onto the man's table or into his bed of his own volition.

Bucky shudders at the feel of phantom steel hands on his body, at the mocking whispers to _hold still_ and _be good_. And he had been good, learning quickly to hide his horror. Now he can't help picturing how he must have appeared to those dominants who.... He'd prided himself on always holding a piece of himself back, even when they put him under; he'd hidden some small kernel of defiance while his body played the part they wanted it to play. But if they thought they were getting their way, and if he acted like they were, then they still got the sick thrill they wanted out of the encounters. So is he really any better than what Landis accused him of being? Wouldn't it have looked the same to an observer?

A vision of Steve's wild eyes flashes before him again, the width of his shoulders as he bent over the councilor, the weight of his outrage that had stirred something in Bucky's own chest—

He shakes his head again, ruthlessly tamping down the conflicting mixture of arousal and shame. It's just because it'd been one of his daydreams come to life, that's why he can't get it out of his head. But he needs to stop. He doesn't deserve to fantasize about his doms ever again. 

But his treasonous thoughts continue to circle despite his best efforts to derail them, returning again and again to Steve's possessive violence and the impossible hope it'd stirred in him. Only the abrupt silencing of the movie soundtrack snaps him out of it.

The movie is stopped on an image of Princess Jasmine drowning in an hourglass.

 _"Excuse me, Mr. Barnes,"_ Jarvis says on the ceiling speakers. _"There is a call for you. I can transfer it to your bedroom if you prefer to answer privately."_

Bucky gapes at his friends and wracks his mind while the AI explains how to lower the video screen in his room.

"Who is it?" he asks when he remembers how to form words.

_"Sergeant Major Timothy Dugan."_

He bolts upright, heart pounding double-time with sick dread. "What? No!"

_"Captain Stark has approved the call and strongly urges you to speak with him—"_

"That's not happening. I don't want to—. Just, just hang up."

 _"I will tell him you are unavailable, sir."_ Bucky thinks he must be imagining the reproach he hears in the AI's voice.

Clint and Natasha stare at him in the ensuing silence.

"I don't need to talk to him," he mutters, shifting uncomfortably. "Landis already took care of that."

"A lot of people have probably talked to him since the press conference yesterday," Natasha observes mildly, but the tilt of her shoulders betrays her interest. "You're alive. He'd want to hear about it from you."

"I've had enough doms shouting at me today," Bucky says, hoping they'll let it drop.

"You always said he was fair. Maybe he'd hear you out—" Clint cuts off when Natasha taps him on the shoulder and shakes her head, chiding him in Russian about teaching fools.

"You taught me Russian," Bucky reminds her pointedly in that very language

There's a darkness in her answering smile. "I taught you many things. But I never taught you cowardice."

Bucky doesn't wince, though it's a struggle to hold her gaze. He steels himself for a protracted battle of wills, but she surprises him by turning away first, going back to playing with Clint's hair.

"Jarvis, play the movie," he says, and turns unseeing eyes toward the screen.

\---

Late that night, when Bucky wakes from yet another nightmare, he makes his way out to the main room, resigned to wakefulness. 

Despite the AI's helpful suggestions, he ends up watching infomercials, sunk deep in the cushions with the volume down low to avoid waking anyone else. But even that surefire cure for insomnia is no match for his racing thoughts, which stubbornly return over and over to Landis's accusations and the question of what he'd told Dugan. Had his former dom believed the World Security Council representative? What had he called to say?

A soft chime from the elevator finally distracts him, and he twists around to see Steve step into the main room. He'd thought his doms were already in their bedroom at the end of the hallway. If Steve's been on another floor, he's either coming from the gym or the lab. He doesn't look sweaty or recently showered. Tony must still be up, working, Bucky concludes with a guilty twitch.

Steve stops in his tracks when he spies Bucky looking at him, and Bucky holds his breath as the moment stretches between them. His skin feels pulled tight, leaving him anxious and uncomfortable. He should ask after Tony. But Steve had been so defensive of his husband yesterday; Bucky doesn't want to anger him again.

"Hi," Steve says softly. He doesn't approach.

"You’re up late," Bucky says inanely.

"I don't sleep much," Steve reminds him. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something more but then shuts it. Seconds pass. "Well, I don't want to disturb you," he says.

"I haven't seen you since this morning," Bucky blurts before Steve can leave. He's been thinking about his dom all day. He can't watch him turn away again. "You haven't been hiding from me, have you?"

"I wanted to give you space. It's bad enough you and your friends are trapped here. I don't want to be in your way all the time."

Bucky wets his lips anxiously. "It's your home. You shouldn't have to skulk about in the middle of the night."

Steve shifts, visibly struggling to find words. "Before we completed the bond, it was better if.... I didn't want to risk—well, you saw what I did down there."

He swallows, throat gone dry at the memory, and stares at Steve's hands. Is Steve saying he wanted to touch Bucky all this time? To _grab_ him? "I saw."

"I lost control today. I was so _angry_ , I—." Steve's shrug is clearly meant to be sheepish, but his white-knuckled fists belie the gesture. "I'm sorry I was so violent. I didn't mean to lose my temper. But that—"

"It didn't upset me." Bucky bites his lip before he can confess that seeing Steve like that had been his fantasy come to life: Captain America bursting in to avenge him and free him from the clutches of an abusive dominant.

"Good," Steve says quietly. Once again he looks like he wants to say something, but he just stands there.

Bucky tries to blink away the haze of longing that's settled over him. He knows he should send Steve away for his own good, but he can't stop thinking about his body in motion, his voice when he'd called Bucky his sub. He finds himself saying, "Do you want to join me?"

Steve's smile is tentative. After a long moment he approaches and sits on the far end of Bucky's couch. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company right now."

"These infomercials are terrible. You'd be doing me a favor."

Steve settles into the cushions, eyes on the screen, and for the next few minutes the latest advertisement provides the only sound in the room. It’s just as terrible as he promised. Bucky tries to act interested in it, but he can't stop sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye.

"You didn't speak with Dugan," Steve says at last.

Bucky swallows a defensive response and waits to see what his dom has to say.

Steve turns toward him. "I spoke with him briefly. He saw the press conference. It was one thing when he knew we were looking for you, but he _saw_ you. I don't think you realize how that hit him." 

"We weren't that close," Bucky starts to mumble, but Steve is insistent.

"He was responsible for you, took care of you. That's a big deal for any dominant, even in a relationship of convenience. I just think you should talk to him. It'd be good for you both." 

While Steve doesn't make it an order, Bucky's well aware that speaking with his former commanding officer is the only thing Steve's asked of him all day. He owes him an explanation. He sighs and twists to face his dom. "Landis said something about my past COs. How they'd react if they knew what I'd done."

"He was full of shit."

"It would hurt them to know. Like it hurt you today."

"It doesn't matter how I—"

Bucky shakes his head, makes his voice firm. "No, I saw Landis's face; he knew what it was doing to you. He was using me to make you and Tony pay. I'm glad you hurt him back. That was.... I'm _glad_ you did it."

Steve hides his face with a shaky hand.

Silence threatens to fall again, but Bucky's already grown addicted to Steve's voice in the intimate setting. His mind crowds with all the things he most wants to hear from his dom, but he settles for asking the question that's been haunting him all day. 

"You don't believe the things he said, right? You know I didn't do those things because I wanted it?" Before Steve can even reply he adds, "That time, the video—he'd sent for Tasha. I couldn't let him touch her, I _couldn't_ , so I—"

"God, no, of course not. You did what you had to. You kept your friends safe. If you'd made any other choice, you wouldn't be the brave man I know." His expression is earnest, no shadow of doubt in his eyes, and it's the best answer, impossibly perfect, so why does a feeling of dread set up residence at the base of Bucky's spine?

Why would Steve give him the benefit of the doubt after what he did yesterday?

"You don't seem surprised by what he said this morning," Bucky says slowly. "You already knew." He means it as a question, but it ends up a statement.

Steve looks down, hands clenching in massive fists for several long seconds before finally settling, open-palmed, on his knees. The anger's still there, Bucky realizes. It's always been there, but Steve had learned to contain it. It took Landis's attack this morning to bring it to the surface.

"Oh," Bucky says faintly. From far away, he hears himself asking, "How much did you know?"

Steve exhales and meets his eyes. "Not everything. But I kicked in a lot of HYDRA doors this year. I got the picture."

Bucky's body flashes hot and cold all at once. A thousand horrified questions lock themselves in his throat, but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, "Is that why you—" he chokes for a second on how pathetic he sounds, but he can't help continuing, "—why you never liked touching me?"

"Oh, darling," Steve breathes, reaching toward him at last—god, how Bucky's missed those hands—but then his features twist oddly, and he leans back. "I want to touch you. Too much. It's just..." he begins, but falls silent. 

Bucky firms his wobbling chin and prepares for yet another rejection.

"Why did you enlist, Bucky?"

He's taken aback by the non sequitur, but Steve looks invested, not like he's just trying to change the subject. So Bucky exhales and tries to get his thoughts in order. 

"I didn't mind the orphanage so much. It wasn't home, but it wasn't a hellhole like they show in the movies. But the day I turned out to be a sub, they moved me to the submissives' wing. The doms and the neutrals all got to play together, do whatever they wanted, but the subs were locked away all the time. 'For our own protection.' It was bullshit. The Navy was the fastest way I could get out of there."

"That's why you enlisted so young." 

"The day I turned 18," Bucky says proudly. "The Armed Forces had just desegregated. I still caught all kinds of shit in Basic, but it was my choice to be there, and no one called me weak and kept all his teeth."

Steve shakes his head fondly. "You remind me of him so much."

Bucky freezes. "What."

"I...I told you a little about Jonathan, I think. The submissive in the Invaders, during the war."

Bucky nods cautiously. Steve hadn't said the name, but he'd talked about the sub that night they watched the Captain America movie.

"Back then, subs didn't have as many rights as they do now. Even before he enlisted, Junior—his last name was Juniper, but we all called him Junior—posed as a neutral so he could go to an Ivy League school. When the war started, and he wanted to enlist, he did the same thing. And he was a great soldier—tough as hell and so goddamn smart. But the Army'd never have allowed him if they knew. I don't know how he took care of himself before he joined my unit—he must have had people he could trust. But we spent so long behind enemy lines, eventually he came to me and asked for help."

Bucky flushes with helpless jealousy. Steve was supposed to be _his_. If he won't touch Bucky because he's still pining for some sub who probably forgot him after he went down in the ice.... "Of course you helped," he manages.

When Steve smiles it's clear he doesn't see Bucky anymore; his gaze is lost in memory. "At first I was so excited to be chosen; but I'd misunderstood. I helped him, and it was an honor to be trusted like that, but ultimately he hadn't had another choice. He was making the best of a bad situation. I was his commanding officer and his interim dominant. And I was respectful—I'd never dream of holding his needs against him, or of taking advantage—but the power imbalance was too.... He wasn't mine to touch, Bucky."

He shakes his head, too shocked to respond beyond, "I'm not him."

"You're brave and strong like he was. And you've had so many choices taken away. First the collar and the things they made you do, and then the true-pair bond. You should have power over your own life. And just because I want to touch you all the time, that doesn't give me the right to take away your choice."

Something detonates in Bucky's chest, and he squeezes his eyelids shut as his heart overflows. "I chose yesterday," he gasps.

"No, darling. You didn't."

Bucky's eyes fly open to find Steve watching him tenderly. His expression is resolved, reflecting a bone-deep calm that hadn't been present all night, and Bucky realizes that whatever Steve had wanted to say earlier, he's only now getting to it.

"I came here tonight to tell you that I understand. And I'm not angry—not at you. I know that by completing the bond with us, you gave up another choice in exchange for safety. You did what you felt you had to. That's my fault for not making you feel safe, and I'm sorry you have to suffer the consequences of it."

He recoils, unable to accept such forgiveness. "I took away your choice, though," he protests hoarsely. "I _made_ you—"

Steve shakes his head with a gentle smile. "I made my choice the day I learned your name."

"No. No, you didn't want me."

"I was trying to give you time. I still am. Listen, you've had so few choices these past few years, but you still have them with me. I'm here for you, as little or as much as you want me to be. If all you want is what I had with Jonathan, I can be that for you. And it will still be an honor to help as much as you'll let me."

Bucky stares, dumbfounded by Steve's generosity.

"If someday you decide you want more, I'll be here to give it to you when you're ready. I love you, James Barnes. But I won't push for more than you want to give. Everything that happens between us will be your choice."

His vision goes blurry with tears, and he blinks rapidly to keep them from falling. Steve _loves_ him? He wipes his eyes impatiently with the heel of his hand, not wanting to lose sight of his dom for a second.

"But you have to set the pace, Bucky. I can't take from you like they did. I couldn't bear it, least of all if you let me. I want to hold you so badly it's all I can think of most days." Steve stretches out a trembling hand along the back of the couch, stopping halfway. "But it has to be your decision."

Steve is offering Bucky's dream come true, and a selfish part of Bucky urges him to seize it. He could take his dom's hand, and Steve would twine their fingers together. He could ask for a kiss, and Steve would give him as many kisses as he wanted. The luxury of possibility is heady. 

And terrifying. Steve still thinks he's blameless, which means he might someday reject him. Bucky'd taken this chance once before, and the past week has been a brutal purgatory. He's not sure he could bear to watch Steve pull away from him again.

He swallows and eyes Steve's waiting hand. All he has to do is reach out. It should be easy. But there's a battle being waged inside him between the desire to hold and be held and the impulse to claw his way free like a wild animal. If he takes Steve's hand now, if he puts himself in Steve's hands....

He takes too long.

He's watching closely, which is why he catches the way Steve's shoulders slump in resignation, the flash of pain in his eyes. But the emotion is quickly buried, and his dom smiles gamely. "Alright, Bucky. Understood."

Bucky can't bear the false smile anymore, the hurt he finally understands it's masking. He lunges forward, grabbing Steve's retreating hand. 

"You're too good. You shouldn't be so good to me. And I'm scared. I've been so scared. But I want...I _want_ , Steve."

The mask-like smile falls away, and Steve's face goes soft with emotion. "Okay," he says, swallowing and nodding, eyes flicking between their hands and Bucky's face. "We'll figure it out. Take all the time you need."

Bucky exhales shakily and collapses back into the cushions, unable to tear his gaze from Steve's beautiful face. He rubs his thumb over the unmarked knuckles of Steve's hand and gives in to the treacherous feeling of hope.

"We have time now," Steve assures him before he even thinks to ask. "Public opinion is on your side, Buck. The response has been even better than we could have hoped. It's more than enough to buy us some leeway with the WSC. Landis and his ilk won't be back, I promise."

"Then we're done? No more interrogations?"

Steve looks apologetic. "We still have to clear your names, I'm afraid. And for that we need SHIELD to finish their work."

Bucky sighs in disappointment and turns back to the screen. All the risk is still there, just waiting for the right questions to be asked, the right evidence to turn up. He squeezes Steve's hand as the endless cycle of worry starts up again. He's not letting go this time. No matter what happens, even if someday Steve tries to send him away, he's going to fight to keep his dom.

Steve's hand in his is warm and real, the bond humming soothingly in the skin contact, and the hour has only gotten later as they talked. The longer he focuses on Steve's steady presence beside him, the less urgent his worries seem. His mind wanders, and several minutes later he snorts in sleepy amusement and mumbles, "Order today, rush delivery. I wonder how much it costs to replace a two-way mirror."

Steve chuckles softly. "I'll tell you when they hand me the bill." 

Bucky hums. His eyelids are far too heavy to bother holding open. "Four easy installments."

"Whatever it is, it was worth it."

"So worth it. I'd've knocked out a few of his teeth."

"I hope I did you proud, Buck." Steve twists his hand in Bucky's to interlace their fingers, and Bucky holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings are for the first half of the chapter.
> 
> As payback for yesterday's publicity stunt, the World Security Council sends a new interrogator with the goal of humiliating the Three. He accuses them of collaborating, then briefly attempts to dominate Clint against his will. He focuses most of his attacks on Bucky, forcing him to recount some of what Ebersol did to him (few specifics are given) and attempting to humiliate him with a story about a rape he'd heard from the HYDRA prisoners. Bucky takes some of Landis's shaming and accusations to heart.
> 
> If you don't wish to read the above, skip the first section. Here is what you need to know: Bucky stops cooperating when he realizes this "interrogation" is really meant to punish his dominants through him. Steve breaks through the two-way mirror and attacks Councilor Landis, putting an end to the day's interrogation. Start reading at the first break, which begins with "The faux-Arabian soundtrack of _Aladdin_ sweeps through the room...."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers erupt into violence, blindsiding Bucky with some truths about the people he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions the murder of a child. If this is a trigger for you, please check the notes at the end of the chapter before you read.

Bucky emerges from the shower to find Clint sitting on his bed, silently staring at him. He hesitates in the doorway for long seconds before Clint breaks the tension with a snort.

"Come on, Barnes. Lighten up."

"So you're talking to me again?"

Clint shrugs and glances around the room before turning back with a smirk. "Sleep well?"

Bucky flushes and flexes his hand, still a bit cramped. He _had_ slept well, waking long past dawn with his fingers still entwined with Steve's and a crick in his neck from leaning toward his dom. He says nothing, instead walking to the dresser to find a pair of boxer briefs.

"You looked pretty cozy earlier," Clint prods.

The drawer slams shut harder than intended, and Bucky chides himself to be rational. Of course they'd been spotted on the couch. Their conversation had felt intimate in the darkness, but there'd been no reason to expect privacy in a public space.

Still, he hadn't noticed anyone else; Clint must have come by while he was asleep. Steve hadn't said anything about him. 

"Still having trouble sleeping? I thought luxury was growing on you," Bucky says, bantering on autopilot while he tries to find his equilibrium.

"Maybe I'm slow to change my mind," Clint says. His knee bounces a few times before he adds pointedly, "You seem to have changed your tune pretty fast, though. I told you they'd take it well."

"Huh?"

Clint smiles. "It's not such a big deal now that you've told them, is it? You should have listened to me sooner."

"Told them—?" Bucky repeats before he realizes; Clint thinks he told his doms _everything_. "Clint. I told Steve I wanted to _try_."

Clint’s smile disappears. "You didn't tell him what happened? You're still lying to them? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm doing this my way—"

"This is so fucked up. They're your doms for _life_. You're just going to keep playing them? What happens when they find out for—"

"I'm handling it!" Bucky shouts, rather than try to explain that this is no time for the truth. Clint wouldn't understand, anyway—not with his history with abusive dominants; the idea of being permanently bonded probably horrifies him. But Bucky's all too aware that Steve has only just forgiven him for the bond, and Tony's still not talking to him. He has to secure what he has now, not introduce more risk. "And they're my problem to deal with, not yours."

Clint scowls, his knee rocking for a few more seconds, before stalking out with a muttered, "Goddamn coward."

Bucky makes a rude gesture after him.

The morning had started so beautifully, with Steve's smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the skyscrapers outside. The sight of it had stolen his breath, and Bucky'd ducked his head to hide his own helpless smile. He'd mumbled something nonsensical about getting cleaned up, anything to give him a few minutes' privacy to pull the unraveled edges of himself back under his skin.

He'd been happy. Even—cautiously—optimistic that things might work out after all. 

But only as long as his dominants never learn the truth. His relationship with Steve is far too fragile to withstand the kind of bombshell Clint's suggesting, not to mention how Tony'd react. He'll just have to convince Clint that it's safest to conceal the truth.

He shakes his head and finishes getting ready to face the day's interrogation.

\---

Steve has a gentle smile for him as they board the elevator. But Tony's eyes slide right over Bucky, and he keeps his back turned on the ride down.

Bucky hides a wince. He has time to fix things, he repeats to himself. Steve had promised him time last night, and the AI had reported fewer protesters today. If he can just get Tony alone, he'll...well, he won't tell him the truth, despite Clint's scorn. But he'll figure out some other way to win him back.

First, he has to make sure nothing new comes out in the remaining interrogations that could upset either of his doms.

His thoughts are focused inward as he walks into the interrogation room, so it takes a minute to identify the sensation of surreality that has his skin crawling. 

Agent Pandit sits in his chair, waiting for them like always. The room appears just as it had the first few days, as though there'd never been a second chair brought in for a new interrogator, let alone a third thrown through the mirror. There's not even a trace of glass on the floor, which has been scrubbed so clean his shoes squeak.

Bucky and Natasha file to their seats opposite the SHIELD agent as usual, but this time Clint deviates from the routine, walking right up to the mirror.

"Nice workmanship," he says loudly, pressing his fingers to the glass and then attempting to peer through.

"Mr. Barton, if you'd care to join us?"

Clint raps his knuckles against the surface: _Shave and a haircut_. "Pretty sturdy. Amazing how fast things can be patched up, right, Buck?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and doesn't rise to the bait. Clint will just have to get over it.

"Some of us don't have all day, _solnyshko_ ," Natasha sighs.

Clint casts the mirror one more considering look, then taps the _Two bits_ himself before finally taking his seat.

"Ms. Romanoff is correct. Thanks to yesterday's distasteful business, our time together has been cut short; today is your last day to enter statements into the record. I realize there's still much to cover, so, Mr. Barnes—"

Bucky twitches, startled to not hear _Sergeant_ on the agent's lips. He belatedly realizes that Pandit hasn't used any of the ranks he'd previously insisted upon for all of them. 

_Huh._

"I'm afraid we won't be able to delve as deeply into your story as I'd originally planned. In the interest of time and completeness, I would like you to list the missions that you and your companions performed for HYDRA. Please limit your remarks to the date, time, location, objectives, methods, and parties involved. Insight into HYDRA's motives for each mission would be appreciated if you are aware of them, but I recognize that you and your companions were not involved in the selection of your targets."

Unable to believe the reprieve he's being given, he searches Pandit's face for some sign that this is a trap. Or perhaps resentment over having his hand forced—even simple frustration at the lack of time to pursue the topic. There's nothing but studied patience in the man's expression.

There must be a catch, another shoe waiting to drop. Bucky doesn't let himself look at the mirror, but he's sorely tempted.

Natasha elbows him in the ribs, and when he turns to glare at her, rubbing his side gingerly, there's a twinkle in her eyes. "Sometime today," she prompts. 

He swallows his unease and takes a deep breath. "After Jurzyka, there was the hit on the evidence locker in Seville."

\---

"We closed the Kanpur Over Bridge for 24 hours on February 22nd," Bucky says hours later, letting out a long breath as he finally reaches the end of the list. The only mission after Kanpur was the Élysée, which they've already covered in depth.

The agent thinks for a moment. "The Governor of Uttar Pradesh was assassinated on that bridge that day." At Bucky's nod, Pandit curses under his breath and prompts, "Details."

Bucky explains how they'd acquired the Governor's travel schedule for the day, the area they'd chosen for the interception, and the food truck that Natasha drove onto the massive raised highway. Bucky'd triggered the smoke pot under the hood, and no one had spared more than a few foul words for the broken-down clunker in the innermost lane. Clint had been stationed under a tarp on the roof waiting for the motorcade to pass in the other direction. He'd ricocheted his shot off the pavement, and the magnetic mine had attached to the undercarriage of the vehicle. 30 meters later, the detonation had sent the fiery wreckage airborne and left it crashing down onto the median at 80 kilometers per hour, killing all inside.

"Bullshit. A shot like that's impossible."

Clint smiles and crosses his arms. "Not for me." 

The agent flashes him an incredulous look but doesn't challenge the boast. "Any insight into the motive?"

Bucky shakes his head. "All he said was to shut the bridge down for the day without anyone asking questions."

"The _bridge_ was the target?" Pandit gapes. "Then the Governor...."

"Was the lowest-casualty option."

"We considered a 50-car pileup. All those motorcycles—there'd have been bodies everywhere," Natasha offers. "But the investigation into the assassination of a ranking official could be relied upon to be thorough without raising the wrong sort of questions."

Agent Pandit takes a long moment to study them all, a considering look in his eyes. "And after Kanpur?"

"Paris," Bucky says stiffly.

Pandit nods and looks down at his tablet, tapping away for a long minute. Eventually he looks back up, posture straightening. "Then we have reached the end of this interview. Unless there's anything else any of you'd like to add to the record? Any other instances of HYDRA's coercion that might support your cases?"

Silence stretches for a few seconds.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in Bucky's throat at the thought of one more specific 'instance of coercion' he could share. He swallows the sound and shakes his head. 

He feels like he's floating. He can hardly believe it: they're done, and his fears hadn't come to pass. He wants to shout his relief.

And then Clint clears his throat.

Bucky crashes back to earth. When he looks over his friend is glaring at him. He scowls back, shaking his head sharply. 

"Something you'd like to share, gentlemen?" Pandit asks. When it becomes obvious that no one is going to talk, he stands. "Very well then. Mr. Barton, Ms. Romanoff, Mr. Barnes, thank you all for your time and cooperation. SHIELD will be in touch regarding the proceedings."

Bucky stands and moves toward the door, Natasha on his heels. 

"I've got something to say."

Bucky's blood runs cold. He spins to discover Clint still seated, facing the mirror. "Clint—" he chokes out.

_He wouldn't._

Agent Pandit reclaims his seat. "Barton?"

"Matyika Vona, in a little town called Pálmajor. Hungary. I did that." Clint raises his chin to stare Bucky down. "I want it on the record."

Bucky can't breathe through the conflicting rushes of relief and terror.

"I'm not familiar with the name."

"Look it up," Clint says. He swallows visibly but otherwise appears calm as he rises from his seat and walks out the door, leaving them behind. 

"He always had the worst timing," Natasha mutters.

"Oh my god," Bucky whispers blankly, and lets her pull him down the hall.

\---

Bucky keeps Natasha between them in the elevator. He bites his tongue, stares at the ceiling, and focuses on controlling his breathing. He's not going to give Clint the satisfaction of provoking a reaction. He’s _not_.

But the second the doors open he finds his hand fisted in his friend's hoodie and caution thrown to the wind. "What the hell were you thinking? You can't tell them that! You can't just confess to—"

"Fuck you!" Clint shouts, grabbing Bucky's clothing in return and diverting their momentum, driving Bucky backward across the main room. "You think you're the only one with a guilty conscience? Maybe I wanted some closure for his goddamn family, you ever think of that?"

"But that wasn't you!"

"It was my fault!" Clint roars, wrenching Bucky close.

"You can't afford to give them ammunition like that," Bucky counters, jerking his chin at the world beyond the windows. "You don't deserve what they're going to do—"

"I don't fucking care anymore. Bring it! At least I'm not being a coward!" Clint shoves him forcefully.

"Get the _hell_ away from my sub!"

Bucky spins and discovers Tony standing in the newly arrived elevator, his face red with fury, and Steve behind him, looking shocked. He doesn't even think before placing himself between Clint and his angry doms, spitting, "Leave him alone!"

Tony advances. "He butchered a child! I want him out of my home this instant. SHIELD can have him. You hear me, Barton? _I want you out of here!_ " Tony's voice slips into his dominant register on the final order, and Bucky's blood boils at the insult.

"Tony," Steve says sharply, but he cuts off at a loud whine from the other side of the room.

Bucky turns back in time to see Clint slide to his knees, hazy-eyed and blindly staring in the doms' direction.

"Clint!" Bucky races to his side, but Natasha beats him. Together they support his shoulders and keep him from falling over. 

"Sorry," Clint whispers, body shaking, eyes welling with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He's nearly under, defenses cracked wide open, and Bucky's world turns red.

He braces Clint against Natasha and then stalks towards his dominants. "What the hell did you just do? What were you _thinking?!_ "

Tony eyes are round, his head shaking in denial. "I didn't mean—I didn't—I'd never have—"

Bucky's hand is a fist. He doesn't recognize the voice that snarls, "Get out of here. Get out! _Go!_ "

Tony stumbles back, bumps into his husband, and then turns and bolts for their suite at the end of the hall without a backward glance.

Steve stays where he is. "Is Clint okay? Can I help?" he asks urgently, his posture open, non-aggressive.

Bucky doesn't have time for soothing words. Not with a roar like a laughing crowd in his head, not with Clint helpless and hurting behind him. His friends were supposed to be _safe_ here.

"Just go, Steve."

"Please!" Steve catches his good arm, stopping him cold. "If there's anything I can do. If he needs—"

"Get the fuck out," Bucky grates. It's all he can do not to wrench away from Steve's grip. "He doesn't need anything from you."

"If he's dropped, I can help him. He doesn't have to come up alone. Think!" Steve says, shaking his arm. "What does he need?"

"He needs his _family_." He twists out of Steve's hold and turns his back on his dom, returning to his friends.

Natasha has maneuvered Clint to a seated position on the floor. She's kneeling beside him, arms around his shoulders and whispering in his ear.

"How is he?" Bucky asks, sliding down to join them.

"He didn't go all the way under; he'll be okay. You just gave us a scare, right, _solnyshko_?"

Clint clutches at Bucky's hand without raising his head and sobs out a laugh. "Yeah," he whispers, still choked with tears. "Just keeping you on your toes. ... Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...."

Bucky swallows bile at the sight of his annoying, swaggering friend reduced once again to a cringing mess. He's familiar with the fragile state Clint is in. It doesn’t seem as bad as when Ebersol used to drop and abandon him, but he's clearly rattled after such a close call; even after they get him calm, he'll be prone to insecurity and emotional outbursts for the next hour or so.

He'd never thought to see this again, Clint's very nature turned against him without his consent. 

He grits his teeth, trying to keep the outrage out of his voice when he says, "Hey, c'mon now. Buddy, look at me. Let's get you up on the couch, okay?"

Clint shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Buck. I had no right. I know they're yours."

Bucky gets his good shoulder under Clint's arm and nods at Natasha, already in position on Clint's other side. "Come on now, upsy daisy," he grunts.

Between the two of them, they hoist him up onto the sofa.

Clint doesn't help or resist, just lets them press him back into the cushions. Natasha snuggles in on his right side while Bucky shrugs off his own hoodie, tucking the garment around Clint like a blanket. He shouldn't be going into shock, but he keeps babbling nonsensical apologies. Bucky shoots Natasha a worried look, but she's watching Clint with a sad expression.

"Sorry. I’m sorry..."

Bucky squeezes his shoulder. "You didn't do anything wrong. This wasn't your fault."

"No, it was. They're yours. But...I wanted them. The attention."

Bucky freezes. 

Clint continues, gaining momentum as though lost in his own head. "You didn't want them, and I would have done anything for just—. I _know_ they're yours. But they were there, all the time, and it's been so long, I just wanted it so bad, I couldn't stand it...." Clint breaks into sobs, and Natasha shushes him, rocking him gently.

Bucky eyes him with horror. Is it possible that Clint had been in such bad shape, and he'd missed it? Too caught up in his own problems, too focused on his dominants and the incomplete bond, to have seen this growing? How long had Clint been suffering? Weeks? _Months?_

"I wanted them to notice me. I didn't think I was hurting anything! I'm sorry. It's my fault."

Nausea takes a hard swing into fury at Clint's misplaced assumption of guilt. No matter what Clint did, he didn’t deserve this—this _betrayal_ at the hands of yet more thoughtless dominants, who can strip a person of their agency, render them humiliated and helpless, without even trying.

"You weren't the one who did something wrong," he growls, and stands. "You've got him?" he asks Natasha. She nods.

Bucky straightens his spine and marches off to face his dominants.

He doesn't bother knocking.

The door is already cracked, and he pushes through to discover Tony sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed, his head in his hands. Steve's standing beside his husband, hand on his shoulder, murmuring something Bucky can't hear.

He closes the door behind him with a sharp sound, and they both lift their heads to look at him. 

"How dare you?" His accusation comes out louder than he'd expected in the hush of the room, but he doesn't allow himself to flinch.

Tony jumps to his feet, blank expression back in place. "I didn't mean to do that," he responds flatly. "I didn't even _touch_ him."

Steve shifts as though to move between them, but Bucky ignores him.

"You never should have used that voice on him."

Tony begins to pace. "And you should have warned me what kind of animal I was bringing into my home. But oh no, that would have endangered your plans for us—" 

"Tony, please," Steve says.

Tony's words are just more fuel for Bucky's anger. "Am I an 'animal' to you, too? Is Natasha? I should have known. All those pretty promises, but you're no better than any other dominant."

"You're one to talk about pretty words—"

"You said you'd take care of us. Like we're your pets. Like we're _less than_. You're all alike."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the way you dominants treat submissives. Like we don't have voices of our own, just existing to stroke your ego."

"I don't even—. Look. That wasn't supposed to happen; I didn't lay a finger on Barton. Subs don't just drop like that!"

Bucky bares his teeth, feeling barely in control of himself. "You didn't need to touch him! All his other doms have seen to that."

"Let me guess: They're the ones who made him a monster, too? That makes him innocent?"

"It's not his fault!" Bucky snaps, advancing on Tony, who holds his ground.

"Both of you, just stop," Steve pleads. "Bucky, how is he?"

Bucky turns to include Steve in his protest, "It wasn't his fault. None of this was his fault!"

"He's the one that said he did it," Tony sneers, arms spread wide.

"He—." Bucky catches himself and takes a deep breath, trying to think past the anger. Tony needs to understand how he hurt Clint. He tries to arrange his words carefully. "Clint expressed really young, okay? And he was a runaway—he didn't have anyone looking after him—and two dominants were on him from the very beginning. He thought because they were doms he had to do whatever they said."

Tony huffs and rolls his eyes, but Steve nods encouragingly, so Bucky swallows a nasty retort and tries again.

"They groomed him, controlled him for years. They passed him around like a party favor, and he didn't even know it was wrong. He'd never have left them if they hadn't abandoned him first. And when he tried to enlist after, the Army recruiter tricked him into some shady psychodynamics program."

"Project Concordance," Steve murmurs.

Bucky nods instinctively, then realizes what Steve just said. "You know about that?" he demands. If the back of his neck weren't shaved, the hairs there would be standing up. Clint had said it was top secret. He looks suspiciously at Tony; the program had concluded years before Tony Stark's famous change of heart. What if Tony'd had something to do with it?

Steve shakes his head vigorously. "Just what Fury uncovered for us. We've seen the reports, records from the experiments. They made me sick to my stomach."

"He'd tell me stories, like there was nothing wrong with it. He said they used to time them, see which subs could go down the fastest with the least contact."

"I know."

"He said he was one of the best at it. He talks about it like it was an _accomplishment_. And he doesn't even get it, how humiliating it is."

"They conditioned him."

"They _programmed_ him. And then they turned him over to some fuckwad dominant with a silver bar on his shoulder and underworld contracts in his pocket. Christ, is it any wonder Mentallo took him?" He catches himself starting to shout and forces his temper back under control. "He's not responsible for what he did. You can't blame him for being used his whole life!"

"We don't blame any of you," Steve assures him. "You've all been abused, manipulated in ways that were absolutely unjust. We recognize you've been through a lot. The last thing either of us wants to do is make you feel disrespected."

Bucky ignores his placating words and glowers at Tony, who stands with arms crossed, unrepentant. 

"I thought he'd be okay here. I thought he'd be safe with you. But you're no better than any of them: Landis, the HYDRA doms, those sicko doctors—"

"Tony wasn't one of the doms who hurt Clint before," Steve says firmly, moving to block Bucky's view. When Bucky scowls at him, he continues, "You're all safe here, I promise. Tony didn't mean for that to happen. He didn't understand about Clint."

"He should have been more careful," Bucky insists, not quite willing to forgive Tony's actions.

"He'd had a shock. The details Jarvis gave us were...upsetting. But we know Clint wasn't to blame. And we'd never try to take advantage of him that way. It's all okay, Bucky." 

Bucky breathes hard for a moment before he finally allows the knowledge that he has Steve's support to ease some of the unbearable tension. He drags his fingers through his hair with a reluctant sigh, and Steve makes a soft sound.

"You're bleeding!" Steve reaches out but stops himself.

Bucky looks at his own hand and confirms that one of his scabbed knuckles had split sometime in the last few minutes. The corners of his lips curl in an involuntary smile at Steve's anxious expression, the way his hands hover in the air, desperate to touch but waiting for permission.

"I didn't notice," he says, but he reaches out, letting Steve cup his hand and tut over the small trickle of blood. "It's nothing."

"You need to be gentle with this for a few days," Steve chides, dabbing at it with a handkerchief.

Bucky's stomach flips at his dom's blatant tenderness, a bewildering surge of hope and dismay that doesn't suit his lingering outrage. He twists his hand in Steve's and stills his ridiculous fussing. "Steve. It'll be fine."

"Well, this is awfully sweet," Tony's voice cuts in, all acid and contempt. "Shall I give you two some privacy? The bed's all yours."

Bucky stiffens and pulls away, and Steve sighs.

"Tony...."

"No, no, don't stop on my account. It's my turn to watch him seduce my husband, after all. He moves awfully fast, doesn't he?"

Bucky's cheeks go hot.

"He's not seducing me. We talked last night," Steve says, as though that one conversation had made everything between them simple.

Tony blanches and takes a single step back, then seems to catch himself. His features return to blankness. 

"Do whatever you want with each other. I still want Barton out of my home."

"It wasn't him. You can't blame him for that!" Bucky exclaims, the pounding behind his eyes springing back to life.

"I'm not blaming him for shooting anyone," Tony cuts in impatiently. "Or whatever else Steve just gave you all a free pass for. I'm blaming him for little Matyika Vona, for what was left of an eight-year-old boy by the time Barton and his knife were through with him!"

"That wasn't his fault!" he snarls, but Steve's hand brushes lightly against his, stopping his advance and derailing his anger once more.

"I believe you, darling. I promise. But it _was_ a terrible crime. The pictures...." Steve winces. "We're having a hard time reconciling that deed with the young man out there. Can you explain? Was he ordered to do that?"

"Sure, explain what order could possibly justify butchering a child," Tony says, gesturing expansively. "I dare you."

Bucky's throat aches that they can think so badly of Clint, especially for an act that had cost him so much. He grimaces and looks at the hardwood floor, pulls himself together so he can get his friend's story out.

"Back when Mentallo'd first captured Clint, before he had Nat and me, he ordered the entire Vona family killed. Clint did the job, but he wouldn't kill the kid. He left the job unfinished." He shudders at a rush of memories he'd tried to forget:

How Clint had always dismissed Bucky's talk of resistance and escape, staunchly maintaining that Mentallo couldn't be defied, that the telepath would always win. How Bucky'd written the younger man off as brainwashed or cowardly. How he hadn't known how right Clint was, until he made the very same mistake himself.

By the time Clint had told him this story, his strong arms wrapped around Bucky in the darkness, it'd been too late.

In his peripheral vision, Tony shifts impatiently, and Steve gestures for his husband to wait.

"Mentallo never took 'No' for an answer. He didn't do anything for a week. Then he sent Clint on a new mission, to kill a protected witness in Pálmajor. Clint didn't know."

"It was Matyika Vona," Steve concludes quietly.

He nods. "He killed the guards in the hall and found the boy. He still couldn't do it. That's when Mentallo showed up." Bucky wraps his arm tight around himself but can't seem to stop shaking. He wishes he still had his sweatshirt, if just for the illusion of protection. "He gave Clint a choice—Mentallo liked choices. Clint could complete the mission or...."

"Or?" Steve asks when Bucky's voice fails him.

Bucky shakes his head, refusing to answer. "But Clint wouldn't do it. All those doms had tried to make him a monster, but he was still _good_. He wouldn't kill a kid," he insists, finally raising his eyes to search his doms' faces for understanding. Steve's eyes are wide and empathetic, but Tony's looking away, rubbing his own chest. "He wouldn't follow orders. So Mentallo took over."

After a lengthy pause, Steve asks, "How do you mean—"

"He used Clint's hands!" The four words rip out of him with enough force to leave him breathless.

"Mind control?" Steve prompts gently, and Bucky nods again.

"He didn't use it that way often—I think it wore him out, taking control like that. But it lasted long enough to do...that...to the Vona boy. Clint remembers all of it," Bucky adds in a whisper.

"Christ," Steve murmurs. 

"He blames himself, but he's wrong! I've tried to convince him, but he won't listen to me. Clint didn't kill the boy; he _wouldn't_ , no matter what Mentallo threatened. He'd never stood up to a dom before—can you even imagine how major that was for him? You can't hold him responsible for what Mentallo did." 

"We don't blame him, Bucky. Of course we don't blame him."

"So he can stay? ... Tony?"

Tony's head snaps up, his hand dropping from the arc reactor as he stumbles backward until his legs hit the bed. "What?"

"Can Clint stay?"

His dom shakes his head violently, like he's trying to clear it. "Why did he keep it a secret? He had plenty of opportunities to explain about that. How does someone keep a secret like that?"

Bucky blinks, flabbergasted. "Are you serious? He blames himself. And he's smart enough not to trust dominants to have his wellbeing at heart."

"Right, because we're all monsters like HYDRA."

"Because he's never met a dom who didn't take advantage of him! Just like you did today." When Bucky advances this time, Steve doesn't stop him. "For god's sake, Tony, what were you thinking? I told them they'd be _safe_ here with you."

"I didn't mean for that to happen—"

"So it's his fault you dommed him? You know what he's been through—I never thought you'd be so callous."

"I was trying to protect you!" Tony shouts, and then sits abruptly, as though his legs have given out. He drops his head in his hands and says brokenly, "The more fool, I."

"Tony...." Bucky gasps, stepping forward unconsciously. The morning's sense of surreality is back in force, and he's almost dizzy with it.

"It was just instinct," Tony says. When he looks up, his features are twisted in that brittle, self-mocking smile from when Bucky broke his heart. "Next time I'll remember that you neither need nor want my help."

Bucky finally takes a good look at his dom, and it jolts him like a cattle prod to his abdomen. Tony hadn’t looked like this the last time he’d seen him up close, but then, he’d been wearing makeup for the interview. The contrast now is obscene. How had he not noticed the dark circles forming beneath Tony's eyes, how thin and pale his skin had gotten? This isn't just a couple nights of bad sleep. How long has this been going on? Did Bucky's absence do this to him?

When Bucky says his name again, questioning this time, Tony flinches and turns his face away. "I'm sorry about Barton. I really didn't mean to do that. I don't know what I was thinking. I'd never do that to any sub, let alone Barton." His hand returns to his chest.

The last traces of anger finally evaporate, leaving Bucky reeling with remorse for having reduced Tony to this state.

"Hey," he says softly, and approaches slowly. Tony doesn't react, so he moves to stand closer and reaches out to touch his dom's hair. 

Tony shudders but doesn't respond.

"Hey, are you okay?" Bucky whispers, sliding his fingers into Tony's thick hair.

Finally Tony looks up at him, sunken eyes wide with anguish. "I'm sorry, I really am—" he starts, but Bucky shushes him.

"It's okay. I know you didn't mean it. You're tired, aren't you?"

Tony slumps forward to rest his forehead against Bucky's hipbone, his hands coming up to settle lightly on his hips. His breathing is ragged, and Bucky tugs him closer, wordlessly urging Tony to lean more weight against him.

What a hypocrite Bucky's been, accusing his dom of taking advantage of Clint's weakness, when he'd already done as much to Tony. He hadn't noticed his friend's withdrawal, nor his dom's sleep deprivation. How can he ever hope to make things right between them now?

He lets his eyes slide closed while he keeps up the stroking and murmured reassurances. And eventually, as Tony calms down, Bucky's struck by how good it feels to hold his dom like this and offer comfort. It settles some disquiet he'd never noticed he carried between his shoulder blades, an unfamiliar sensation of _rightness_ stealing in to take its place.

He's lost track of time when he finally becomes aware of Steve standing very close, smiling at them with a sad furrow in his brow.

"He hasn't been sleeping, has he?" Bucky asks softly, still massaging Tony's scalp soothingly.

Steve shakes his head. "Not much, no. He's been working."

Of course it's Bucky's fault. First he ran, and then he tore Tony's heart in two. And since his arrival at the Tower, Tony's worked nonstop, arranging to get their wires out, then designing a replacement arm. He spares a wistful moment to wonder what his dom is working on now—surely he's abandoned the arm after the disastrous press conference. 

Bucky's guilt must show on his face, because Steve grimaces. "Tony's always had his own ways of coping." His fractional hesitation on the last word speaks volumes.

Bucky swallows a curse. He has to fix this. "You need to start taking care of yourself," he says in a voice tinged with desperation, tugging almost gently at Tony's hair.

Tony doesn't budge, but his hands flex on Bucky's hips.

"You can't go on like this. You need to _sleep_ , Tony. Hey," he says, sharper, tilting Tony's head back. "No more working. You need a break. Promise me."

Emotions flash across Tony's tired eyes faster than Bucky can follow, and his dom stiffens all at once. Tony pulls away abruptly, withdrawing his hands and sidling away along the length of the bed with a suddenly blank expression.

"Tony?" Bucky asks, reaching for him instinctively.

His dom ducks away from his hand and stands, quickly putting distance between them. "Right, so that happened," Tony says loudly.

"What's wrong?" Bucky asks warily.

Tony sneers and backs further away. "Spare me your pity, at least," he snaps. "And don't give me orders. You've already made enough decisions for me."

"Babe, please. We need to talk about this," Steve tries, but his tone already acknowledges defeat.

"Why don't you two have another 'private talk' and let me get back to work. Like I said, the bed's all yours." Tony turns to leave.

Bucky swallows past his guilt and forces himself to call after Tony, "If you see Clint, I don't want you speaking to him. Not in your state."

Tony slams the door behind him, and Bucky winces.

"I'm sure he didn't need that warning," Steve says quietly.

"I get that he didn't mean to be cruel, but he was careless. Clint can't take that in his condition. He deserves better," Bucky says, and his own guilty conscience is audible.

"It won't happen again. Tony can be volatile when he gets like this, but he's not malicious. He won't make the same mistake. Your friends are safe with him." Steve tilts his head and looks consideringly at him. "You're safe with him, too, you know."

Bucky averts his eyes. "He has a right to be mad at me. But I'm not afraid of him; I can take what I've got coming."

"You were really good with him. You felt it, right? How well you two clicked?" When Bucky hesitates, he adds, "I could see it, Buck. You were both so still; it was good for you."

He thinks about the warm spot on his hip where he'd cradled Tony's head. His hand still tingles with the phantom feeling of his dom's hair. The quiet in his head—he doesn't have words for how nice it'd been. But it'd been a stolen moment, a peace he doesn't deserve.

"That was just the bond."

"It wasn't the bond," Steve says. He looks like he wants to add something more, but the silence seems to last forever before he asks, "Have you ever been in a relationship with a dom?"

Bucky scoffs. "I'm not a novice, Steve. I lived a life before HYDRA."

"Of course you did. But I don't mean something casual, like hooking up on leave, or fooling around with another soldier in basic. I mean a _relationship_. Were you ever in one?"

His cheeks grow warm, and it's suddenly hard to meet Steve's eyes. Truth be told, the only relationship that'd ever lasted longer than one night was—"Dugan," he says, relieved to have an answer. 

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky's blush grows hotter.

"He was my dom for more than three years. Last night you said that was a big deal."

"I'm not saying what you two had wasn't important. But a relationship of convenience isn't the same thing. You both would have been holding back."

"It worked for us!" Bucky retorts, embarrassed by the edge he can't keep out of his voice.

"I know it did, darling. I'm glad you had him," Steve concedes with a smile, and Bucky can tell he's unconvinced. "I'm just saying that a real relationship—"

"I'm going to go check on Clint," Bucky says abruptly. He's already endured one interrogation today; he won't stand still for a second. "I'd appreciate if you gave us some privacy."

Steve sighs. "Of course."

Bucky stops at the door. "Could you...check on Tony? Bully him into sleeping?"

"I will," his dom promises, and Bucky shuts the door between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes several references to a past event, the murder of a young boy. The murder is not described to the reader, but several characters react to the details of the event with horror.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky struggles to come to terms with Clint's choice.

Bucky stops in front of Clint's bedroom door. He flexes his neck, ignoring the slight pull of stitches to focus on the tension that's settled between his shoulder blades, and then knocks.

When Clint's voice invites him in, Bucky breathes deeply and carefully affixes a gentle smile before entering.

Clint and Natasha are facing each other on the unmade bed, cross-legged, their hands clasped. Clint's expression is nervous, and Bucky watches anxiously as Natasha chucks him under the chin and whispers something in his ear. Whatever she says, it's enough to get him to release his death grip on her other hand. 

"I'll get you some coffee," she tells him more loudly, and slides off the bed.

Bucky steps out of the way when she heads for the door. He wants to ask her how Clint's doing, but it would be rude to do so in his presence. Natasha doesn't speak as she passes him, but her raised eyebrows and the tilt of her head clearly direct him to approach Clint and find out for himself.

A heavy silence falls after the door closes behind her. Clint still doesn't look in his direction, hands now twisting in his own lap. 

The tableau triggers a queasy wave of pity in Bucky's stomach. He's always hated seeing Clint's weakness exposed like this. 

Finally he clears his throat. "Hey."

After a moment Clint takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and meets Bucky's eyes. "Hey." 

"Mind if I join you?" There's nowhere to sit but the bed, and Bucky won't deny his friend another iota of agency if he doesn't have to.

Clint shuffles all the way back to the headboard, where he plants himself with his arms around his bent knees. "Go ahead."

Bucky gingerly climbs up, careful to stay at the far corner. Clint's behavior is strange—he usually wants to be held after a bad interaction with a dominant—and his closed-off body language keeps Bucky uncertain. 

"How are you feeling?" Bucky asks, studying him for any remaining shock-like symptoms.

Clint shakes his head, refusing the topic. 

"Clint," Bucky starts, ready to lecture his friend for keeping secrets about his wellbeing.

"What'd they say?"

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Clint's last conscious impression of his doms would’ve been Tony's angry threats. He rushes to reassure him, "Oh! They're sorry. Tony didn't mean to do that, he's—he's not mad at you." He smothers his urge to explain how it'd been his own fault for reducing Tony to his current state to begin with; this is about reassuring Clint, not airing his own guilty conscience.

"So we can stay, right? I didn't ruin everything?"

"It's fine," Bucky assures him with more confidence than he actually feels. He knows Steve would never allow Clint to be cast out, but technically Tony had left without answering the question. Bucky will have to sort that out after Tony's gotten some sleep.

Clint's gaze is piercing. "That's what Natasha said. She was just as unconvincing."

"You're not going anywhere," Bucky says firmly. "They know what happened to the boy wasn't your fault."

"Is that what you told them?"

"I told them what you told me. How you wouldn't kill a kid, how Mentallo did it himself. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

But rather than look relieved, Clint bares his teeth at Bucky's reassurances, snarling, "Don't suppose you got around to spilling your own secrets while you were sharing all mine?"

"Dude, what the hell?" Bucky demands, taken aback by Clint's return to this morning's surliness. Whatever had prompted Clint to name Matyika, he apparently hasn't gotten it out of his system. 

Clint ducks his face into his knees, digging his toes into the uneven folds of the blanket. Bucky waits him out. Finally Clint blows out a long breath. "Sorry."

"Stop apologizing and just tell me—"

"No, shut up!" Clint snaps, raising his head to look Bucky in the eyes. "This is on me. It's _my_ shit, and I'm sorry. I've been jealous, okay? Here you are with two goddamn perfect doms, and they're yours for life, and you don't even _want_ them. You've never wanted any of them, but every last one was yours. Do you have any idea how I'd kill for even a scrap of—"

Clint cuts himself off, burying both hands into his own hair while Bucky gapes at him. "Fuck, sorry. It's my own damn problem. I need it so bad, it's hard thinking past it."

"You've been jealous?" Bucky repeats, only now starting to piece together some of Clint's odd behavior—his pacing that first night, alternately provoking and acting shy around the Starks. The signs have been there, but he can't reconcile them with the strength Clint had displayed this past year.

"I know I have no right. I shouldn't've done that today. I'm a mess, but I'm gonna fix it," Clint promises. "I'm gonna ask to see a therapeutic dominant—" 

"What? _No!_ " Bucky barks, aghast. Clint's terrified of dominants; Bucky won't let him do this to himself.

Clint stiffens, his tone defensive when he says, "I'm in withdrawal, Buck. I need it."

"No, no, you got stronger. You were doing so well. You hate dominants. You said—"

" _You_ said!" Clint shouts, but he seems shocked by himself. Bucky waits for a frozen minute while Clint blinks and breathes. When he meets Bucky's eyes again, he seems more settled. "I don't hate doms. I want them all the time. They make me feel amazing."

He's backslid completely, Bucky realizes, appalled.

When they first met, Bucky'd seen almost immediately how vulnerable the younger man was, too susceptible to HYDRA's doms and unaware of his own worth. Clint's constant baiting of the doms got him hurt more often than it got him dropped, but as long as he had their attention he didn't seem to care either way.

It hurts to hear Clint talk like this again, so weak, rejecting everything Bucky tried to teach him.

"I know you say they shouldn't have power over us. And you're right; I never met a dom who didn't treat me like shit. But it doesn't matter. I still need them. I'm not strong like you are—I never have been. I've been trying so hard to be strong, to live up to your example, but it hurts, Buck. It's exhausting. I can't be who you want me to be."

"I don't want you to be someone else, I just don't want to see you get hurt. They were always taking advantage of you, hurting you, and you _let_ them! They ordered you around like a slave, treated you like trash, and you thanked them for it! And none of that's your fault, Clint. They made you like this, they warped you. It's not your fault you're so w—" Bucky stops mid-word when he finally notices that Clint has made himself small, shoulders hunched and knees pulled tight to his chest, expression closed to hide his emotions.

Exact phrases from the lectures he used to give come flooding back to Bucky, exhortations to be stronger, to have some self-respect, to not be so pathetic. Clint used to watch him with this same slumped posture.

"Oh, hell," he breathes. Natasha'd been right when she accused him of manipulating his friend. "I used to talk like that all the time, didn't I?" Clint's silence is corroboration enough, and Bucky recoils, his face flaming hot.

He looks at the door, desperate for some interruption to save him from the ugly realization he's just had. Natasha should have been back by now, he thinks, and then swallows hard, abruptly certain that she had set them up for this conversation, that she's not coming back with coffee any time soon. He has to fix this on his own.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant it like that. You're not weak, Clint. You're strong. And you're so brave." He tries to touch Clint's ankle, but Clint jerks his leg away and hides his face. 

"I'm weak."

"You're so strong. You've survived! Despite everything they did to you, you got through it."

"We both know that's a lie. Landis was right; I didn't fight them for even a second. Not HYDRA, not Ames, not the doctors—not _any_ of them. I know exactly how easy I made it for Mentallo."

"None of that was your fault."

"And then you came along, with your big talk about escaping, and you wouldn't kneel, and you fought every time they tried to put you under, and you wouldn't kill for them. You made me so ashamed. I was never brave like you are." 

"I was stupid," Bucky insists bitterly. He's never deserved Clint's hero worship, and he sees now that it had just lent his thoughtless criticisms more weight. It's bad enough to have hurt Clint with his own hands. To learn he'd been tearing him down all this time—there aren't words for how contemptible he is.

Clint sucks in a fast breath to argue, and Bucky leans forward and catches his hand before Clint tries to defend Bucky's foolishness again.

"I'm sorry for saying things that hurt you. You're like a brother to me. I've always thought the world of you." Clint scoffs at the platitude, and Bucky allows himself a smile. "Well, okay, the first few weeks I thought you were an asshole. But eventually I figured out you were a loveable asshole."

Clint sighs. There's still a shadow in his eyes, but he stretches out his foot to kick Bucky lightly. "I didn't mean to fuck things up for you with your dominants. I just wanted them to see me.... I know it was wrong."

"Hey, no. I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't realize things were that bad. You didn't mess anything up. Tony was just startled. I kind of...I really fucked him up with the bond, and—and he didn't mean to do that to you. He's sorry." Bucky hadn't noticed Clint's _or_ Tony's suffering. Jesus, what else hasn't he noticed? He shakes his head and squeezes Clint's hand. "So it's pretty bad, huh?"

Clint averts his eyes and releases Bucky's hand to scratch at his own stitches. 

"Yeah."

Bucky reaches to stop Clint's hand but catches himself and lowers his arm. It's hard to keep his voice neutral, but he thinks he manages to hide his disapproval when he asks, "And you really want to see a SHIELD dom?"

"Dr. Rubio said it was an option."

"They're a government agency. Can we really trust—"

Clint huffs, an embarrassed whine entering his voice when he says, "It's just a _drop_ , Buck. With a professional. It's not like you never went to a state clinic. You said there was nothing wrong with that, when there weren't other options. And all the dominants above SHIELD's floor are taken, remember? It'll be _fine_." Clint squares his shoulders and adds, "I don't need your permission."

Bucky can hear the insecurity behind the bravado in Clint's voice and knows he could dissuade Clint if he applied enough pressure. It's difficult not to, with all of his instincts insisting that allowing any dominant near his friend is a terrible idea. But if today's taught him anything, it's that Bucky's the last person who should be telling others how to live their lives.

Bucky forces a smile. "It's not my decision. And if you think it's going to help...then I want you to have it." 

Clint smiles tentatively, but a chill runs up Bucky's spine as he imagines a stranger's hand on Clint's bowed neck, possessive and uncaring. They could order him to do _anything_ , and Clint wouldn't be in a position to resist them.

"You shouldn't go alone," Bucky says as calmly as he can. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"Nat's coming with me." 

A current of relief cuts through Bucky's misgivings. After what happened this morning, he thinks he might be sick if he had to see Clint's face in a drop again.

"That's, uh, that's good."

Clint shoots him a cautious look. "You don't have to pretend to like the idea. And I'm not asking you to watch; I know you're not comfortable around doms."

The accusation stings, and Bucky stiffens. "I could, though. If you needed—"

"I don't want you there," Clint adds sharply.

Hurt, Bucky bites his lip. He tries to sound more sincere than he feels when he says, "Okay. You know what you need. I just want you to feel better."

But how can Clint need some stranger's proprietary touch, a voice ordering him to submit?

"I'm gonna be fine, Buck. It'll help."

Bucky nods and smiles despite the suffocating sense of wrongness. He's lost the right to object.

\---

"You're sure this is when he said he'd be available?" Bucky asks the AI, combing his damp hair in the mirror for the hundredth time. 

It's a lost cause. Even with the exemption for Special Forces, he'd never worn his hair anywhere near this long in the Commandos; he'd always preferred a tidier style. He supposes putting it in a queue would at least give some illusion of his old look—at least from straight on—but he's been holed up in his bedroom, avoiding everyone for the last couple of hours. No way is he asking his friends or his doms to come help him. He settles for combing it back and tucking the sides behind his ears.

_"The Sergeant Major has been logged on for the past 23 minutes."_

Bucky's whole body goes cold at this news, but he forces himself to shake off the nerves. Dugan had left word that he'd be available in the afternoon if Bucky decided he wanted to talk. Yesterday Bucky'd had no intention of ever making contact with his former dominant.

But he's been on edge since the disastrous end of their final interrogation this morning and the upheavals that followed. He can't shake the feeling that things are slipping out of his control, and his self-imposed isolation this afternoon has only magnified those fears. He needs a friend to talk to, someone he can explain his fears to, someone who won't think he's crazy or selfish for wanting to keep Clint safe.

He needs his old Marines dominant, Timothy Dugan.

Out of reasons to stall, Bucky positions himself in front of the screen, which shows his mirror image. True to its word, the AI's camera doesn't display him below mid-chest. He's foregone the sling again; he'd prefer Dugan didn't notice his arm. As long as he doesn't move around too much, the stillness on one side shouldn't draw attention. And the baggy hoodie he's wearing to conceal the prosthetic also helps to disguise some of the weight he's lost, though there's nothing to be done for the gauntness of his cheeks. One week of solid meals hasn't been enough to repair the effects of a year on the run.

He braces himself and says, "Okay. Give him a call," before he can chicken out. His fingers worry the waistband of the sweatshirt, the only outward movement, as the rest of his body has gone rigid with nervous anticipation.

Dugan probably won't be mad, he reminds himself. Everything will be fine. He trusts Dugan.

Before he's really ready, Sergeant Major Dugan appears on the screen.

Dugan freezes a split second after the connection is established. He stares at Bucky for the length of several heart beats, eyes wide and attentive to every small detail. 

Bucky is equally frozen, breathlessly watching for the first sign of disappointment, of rejection.

Eventually Dugan shakes his head and huffs quietly. _\- "Jesus Howling Christ, Barnes. You're a sight for sore eyes." -_

Bucky jerks in an instinctive attempt to salute. He converts the gesture to a nervous tug at the hair behind his right ear, reminding himself that he doesn't belong to the military anymore. Nor to Dugan.

That knowledge doesn't prevent a surge of emotion, his throat closing at the sound of the familiar voice. 

"Hey, Dum Dum," he chokes.

Dugan chuckles at the insolent nickname. His eyes crinkle in concern as he says, _\- "You look like hell." -_

Bucky knows exactly how he looks, had spent too long staring at his own haunted reflection before scraping up the guts to make this call. He sidesteps the unspoken question.

"I could say the same about you."

To a casual acquaintance, the changes in Dugan would be too slight to notice. He still has the same ruddy cheeks and blond hair. His mustache, his pride and joy, is as well-kempt as ever. But their relationship was much closer than nodding friendship, and Bucky can see a multitude of new creases in that oft-remembered face, his eyes suspiciously bright with emotion. 

Bucky inwardly curses himself for having caused his former dom years of distress.

_\- "Nonsense. At least I remember to get to the barber. The hair's a new look for you. Can't say I'm a fan." -_

"Camouflage," Bucky quips with false enthusiasm, shifting uncomfortably and fumbling for a new topic. "What's with the service greens? I thought you were in the field."

Sergeant Major Dugan looks every inch the commanding officer in proper base attire, his rank insignia and badges on full display.

Dugan rolls his eyes. _\- "I got pulled in to DC a couple days ago when a certain sub came back from the dead. There's been interviews with the brass, plus they've got me jumping through psych evals and dynamic stability tests, the whole nine yards." -_

Bucky feels another surge of remorse; he hadn't considered how his return might affect his former dom's career. "Damn. The whole unit, too, or—" 

_\- "Just me, for now. The Howlies are on standby, though. They're not happy about it; they wanted to head straight to New York when they heard. They've missed their Sarge real bad. Jones and Morita especially," -_ Dugan continues gently, naming Bucky's fellow submissives. _\- "They're chomping at the bit to contact you. But they'll wait until I give them the go ahead." -_

Bucky's eyes tear up at the mention of his former comrades. He hasn't allowed himself to think of them in years, afraid to even consider what the men who'd once looked up to him would think of what he's become. He wipes his watering eyes hastily, surprised by the depth of his emotions. 

_\- "That alright with you? Hope I didn't overstep. You want to hear from any of them, just say the word." -_

"No, I," Bucky finally croaks. "No, you did right. I'm not.... Tell 'em I missed them, too, okay? And that I said to stay out of trouble."

Dugan smiles, though his nod is solemn. _\- "They're in good hands with Sergeant Huang. He doesn't mother them like you did, but they're used to him." -_

Of course Bucky'd been replaced. He's been gone almost as long as he'd been Dugan's SIC in the first place. But although he'd long ago given up any thought of rejoining the Howling Commandos, it's still unsettling to be confronted with his own expendability.

 _\- "What the hell happened to you, son?" -_ Dugan asks in the awkward silence.

Bucky flinches from the pity in that gruff voice, the stark misery of the question. 

_\- "Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blurted it out like that. You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with. I just—I just want you to know how sorry I am that we didn't find you. I looked, I swear to you I looked—" -_

A violent rush of emotion threatens to suffocate Bucky, guilt and shame at having landed himself in that predicament in the first place, at having disappointed Dugan through every choice that followed. His heart thuds in his chest, sweat forming on his brow, and every cell in his body screams to escape. He casts about frantically for something to say. He'd do anything to avoid this discussion. Even ask the question he's most afraid of.

"You said there were interviews. Did—. Were you contacted by Councilor Landis?"

Dugan blinks at the rude interruption, but then scowls fiercely. _\- "The WSC's lapdog? That slimy fucker hasn't been sniffing around you, too, has he? I told him if I ever met him in person, I'd shove a pint glass so far up his ass, he'd be coughing glass for weeks." -_

It's a relief to see Dugan shares Bucky's low opinion of the temporary interrogator. "Yeah, he was here yesterday. Steve took care of him, though."

Dugan's eyebrows go up at his use of Captain America's first name, and Bucky's tempted to allow the inevitable teasing and settle into the long-forgotten rhythm of their banter. But now that he's broached the subject, a dreadful curiosity has taken root under his skin, and he can't not know the rest.

"You didn't believe anything Landis said, did you?"

 _\- "Fuck no. He's got an agenda same as the rest of 'em. Look," -_ Dugan leans forward and lowers his voice. _\- "How secure is this connection, Barnes?" -_

Bucky's skin prickles with alarm. "Jarvis?"

_"The connection is completely secure, Mr. Barnes. I took the precaution of removing spyware from the terminal the Sergeant Major is using before you called. You may converse freely."_

Dugan nods, and his face goes grim as he prepares to share whatever tidings he wants kept private.

_\- "Listen, there's some cloak and dagger shit going on here. My midnight transport back to the states, and the way no one would answer a single goddamn question until I was saluting a general I'd never met before, getting a lecture about not opening my mouth for anyone except the World Security Council. 0600, I'm in a boardroom in the goddamn Pentagon for a conference call with Landis—there were 10 people in the room with me, but they never said a word. Then they showed me to these temporary quarters, and wouldn't you know, there's a computer terminal with a webcam waiting in the room. I'm pretty sure they want us talking, Barnes." -_

"Jesus."

 _\- "There's another conference call scheduled for 1600 hours tomorrow, I don't know who with. But I'm not supposed to talk to anyone on base before then." -_ He shakes his head. _\- "All I can say is, I'm glad you've got the Starks on your side. Somebody's pulling strings here. I don't know what their objective is, but I don't like it." -_

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. How much influence does the WSC have over the US military? If the Armed Forces come for him and his friends, do they stand any chance whatsoever?

_\- "You know me, Barnes: I'd knock more than a few heads together before I let them charge one of my men for something he had no power over." -_

Dugan's loyal words ring sour in Bucky's ears. "Maybe you shouldn't be so quick to pardon me," he suggests quietly.

_\- "Bullshit. You're one of the best men I ever had the privilege to command. Nothing you or that bigot Landis says will convince me you have an evil bone in your body." -_

Bucky shivers, remembering some of Landis's uglier insinuations. He's spent the last 24 hours telling himself the WSC representative was wrong about him: of course he hadn't wanted to serve HYDRA or their doms; his repeated decision to obey wasn't a reflection of his character. But Clint had all but admitted the veracity of Landis's observations hours ago. If Landis was right about Clint—and he can't have been, because Clint's not vicious, he's just weak—but if he _was_ right about Clint's weakness, then there's a chance he wasn't wrong about Bucky's shameful collaboration, either.

On the strength of those accusations, Clint is going to put himself in an unknown dominant's hands. Even in the middle of an emotional reunion with his former dom, the thought still makes Bucky's skin crawl. 

Dugan's watching him curiously, and Bucky takes the opportunity to solicit his old dom's advice.

"Did you hear I made friends there?" he asks nervously.

Dugan nods, unfazed by the change of topic. _\- "I heard what your Captain told the press. They're subs, too? Prisoners like you were?" -_

He swallows, unsure how to begin to explain Clint and Natasha. "HYDRA had them longer," he finally says, letting the implications of long-term captivity settle over their conversation.

 _\- "You looked after them," -_ Dugan says with absolute certainty. _\- "You got them out." -_

Bucky turns his face from the camera, flustered and appalled by Dugan's misplaced faith.

_\- "Tell me about them." -_

So Bucky tells him about Natasha, how wise and sneaky she is. How she never needed anyone or anything, but she'd cared for both of them, taught them how to keep their heads down and survive.

Dugan looks dubious. _\- "And did you? Keep your head down?" -_

Bucky curses inwardly, wondering whether Dugan’s too-perceptive question is based on their shared history or on whatever sordid facts Landis already shared with him. Aware that his evasion is damning, he talks about Clint's past instead, from his running away to the circus to the betrayal of his Army handler. 

His throat grows tight as he describes how Clint had warmed to him quickly, even when he could have resented Bucky for the times he got them all punished. When his voice fails him altogether, it's only Dugan's gently expectant, _\- "Continue," -_ that keeps him talking.

So Bucky pulls himself together and describes Clint's dynamic dependency, how Clint had never seen anything wrong with what the HYDRA dominants did to him because he'd never known anything better.

_\- "Fucking Christ. That poor kid." -_

"After we got free, I thought he was doing better. He'd come so far this past year, sworn off dominants entirely. But there was an incident this morning, and he's reverted completely. He's asked for a state dom—a SHIELD dom, and I just...I don't know how I'm supposed to allow it! It's not _safe_ for him. Submitting like that—it's not safe with a stranger—there needs to be trust—"

He breaks off with a muffled yell of frustration, unable to find the elusive words to express how wrong he knows this is. He belatedly catches himself gesturing frantically with just one arm. 

Dugan's eyes track the one-sided movement, and his brow furrows. _\- "Barnes," -_ he says carefully.

Bucky backs up a step before he realizes what he's doing. There's a roaring in his ears. He wants desperately to walk away, to hide, but he's trapped within the confines of the camera. 

_\- "We were strangers when we were assigned to each other," -_ Dugan continues in that damnably careful voice.

"We were safe," Bucky insists. "I'm not vulnerable like Clint—I can stand up for myself. And you, you listened. We were good together. Didn't we understand each other?"

_\- "Sure, sure we did." -_

"That's how it's supposed to be. Not strangers giving orders, expecting blind obedience. We had the real thing!" It's only as he says the words that he realizes why he's really talking to his former dom. Steve's parting words had struck a deeper nerve than he'd thought, had cast doubt on everything he believes about dynamics.

Dugan leans back, fingers stroking his moustache thoughtfully, and there's a wrenching sensation like free fall in Bucky's stomach as he braces himself for what's coming next.

_\- "The way your doms talked in that video a couple days ago, you three were rock solid. Now it sounds like there's trouble in paradise. Are they treating you right?" -_

Bucky thinks guiltily of Steve's desperate pleading when he forced the bond. Of Tony's brittle smiles and the dark circles under his eyes. They'd treated him just fine; it'd been his actions that hurt them, like he'd hurt his friends, like he's been hurting Clint. The floor is shaky beneath his feet, the roar in his ears louder than ever. Dugan is waiting for a response, but Bucky doesn't know where to begin to explain his monumental fuckups to the man he'd looked up to, how much he's failed everyone who ever cared about him.

"They're good. Too good to me. I don't deserve what they've done for me. I'm...." He takes a deep breath, ruthlessly forcing his emotions back under control. "I've been screwing things up. But I'm going to fix things. I'll make it up to them. And if I'm good enough, maybe I can have something as solid as what you and I had."

_\- "Despite everything else that happened, would you believe I was happy when I learned you and the Starks had developed a true-pair bond? I always thought it'd take a bond to get past your defenses." -_

Bucky gapes at Dugan, stomach lurching once again. He'd wanted to talk about Clint, about Clint's decision to submit to a dominant. Not about his own failings.

_\- "I didn't need a degree in psychodynamics to know you had trust issues. You were the prickliest damn sub I ever knew. A real pain in the ass when it came to doing scenes—always had to be in charge. I swear to god, you wouldn't know a compromise if it walked up and punched you in the mouth. You were stubborn as a mule, but loyal to a fault. And I wouldn't've changed you for the world, son." -_

Bucky opens his mouth to say something to defend himself, he's not sure what, but Dugan cuts him off, voice sharp in that no-nonsense way Bucky's always respected. 

_\- "Don't lie to both of us, Barnes. You're selling yourself short if you've been romanticizing our arrangement. What we had was just a shadow of the real thing. And from the sound of it, so is your current relationship with your bondmates. You experienced any emotional bleed through yet?" -_

"What?"

_\- "It's one of the traits of a successful true-pair bond. You should be picking up each other's stronger emotions, especially in close proximity." -_

"That's just in the movies," Bucky scoffs with forced nonchalance, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that wonders if this is why he kept feeling happy in Tony's presence—or used to, before he broke his dom's heart.

_\- "I know folks with a bond; it's real. But I'm betting you haven't let yours progress to that point." -_

"I screwed things up with my doms," Bucky repeats angrily. "There's nothing wrong with the bond."

_\- "Don't get huffy with me for pointing out the truth. You're the one who called me for relationship advice." -_

"I did not."

Dugan rubs one hand over his face, and his tone is shockingly gentle when he says, _\- "It's not your fault, how you were. Not before, and not whatever the last few years did to make you even less trusting." -_

The roaring has become a jeering crowd. "I trusted you." When Dugan crosses his arms and stares him down, Bucky insists again, "I did! I trusted you!"

_\- "Three years together, and you never once went all the way down for me. And that was your right; I'm not saying it wasn't. You held back, and I didn't push, because that was the job. You were assigned to me—you didn't have to belong to me." -_

Bucky startles at the familiar words.

_\- "But if you're still pulling that half-in bullshit with your bondmates, it's no wonder you're having problems." -_

"I need you to drop it," Bucky grates out, rubbing his palm against his thigh to keep from making a fist. 

_\- "Look, I'm just saying, as someone who's spoken to them, the way they feel about you...." -_ he shakes his head. _\- "There's few people you can trust more than those two. They'd move heaven and earth for you." -_

"Just stop, Dum Dum! Alright? I'm trying, but I...I can't keep talking about this." He's practically vibrating from the stress of keeping his tone civil. The last thing he wants to do is alienate his former dom, but he's not sure he'll be able to help it if the topic continues for much longer.

Whatever's on Bucky's face must get through to Dugan. He stares for a moment, and then slides on the mask of command as easily as clearing his throat. _\- "Right. Okay, well. Now that we've got your relationship squared away," -_ he starts, and Bucky stifles a laugh at the absurdity of his tone saying those words. _\- "Now that that's settled...what the hell is wrong with your left arm, Sergeant?" -_

\---

"Steve?" Bucky calls, hesitating in the elevator.

"Over here," comes Steve's voice from somewhere out of sight. "I heard you were on your way up."

Bucky steps out onto the open roof of Stark Tower and is instantly struck by the feeling of exposure. He covers the nape of his neck instinctively, the past year of caution prompting him to hide. The lack of wires under his palm is briefly disorienting, and it takes him another moment to remember that he's not in hiding anymore; the whole world knows his current address. He forces himself to lower his hand. 

Looking around, he can see Manhattan and some of the surrounding boroughs in the distance. The nearby buildings are too low to afford anyone a view of him, and it's enough to ease some of the tension that had gathered in his spine.

The helipad takes up the majority of the rooftop, but close to the elevator is a large square of real-looking grass. It's a brilliant green in the late-afternoon sun, the color a pleasant juxtaposition to the manmade surroundings. 

And in the middle of that greenery Steve sits cross-legged, a large sketchbook in his lap.

Bucky approaches cautiously, unsure of his reception. Stepping onto the grass, he turns his face briefly into the gentle breeze, marveling that he'd gone more than a week without fresh air on his skin. That, at least, they hadn't lacked while on the run.

When he opens his eyes again, Steve is smiling up at him. 

"Jarvis told me you were up here," Bucky says in a rush, lest Steve suspect his motives for leaving the confines of the Tower.

"I like to come up here to draw, sometimes. You can't beat natural light and fresh air, no matter what Tony says." 

Bucky squints into the distance. It's a clear day; he can make out Newark across the river. 

"Do you need something?"

Bucky shrugs helplessly. His conversation with Dugan hadn't relieved his anxiety like he'd hoped, and he'd finally caved and sought Steve with the same overwhelming need for reassurance. But in the broad light of day he doesn't know where to begin. Eventually he asks, "How's Tony?"

"He's asleep," Steve says. "He put up a fight, but I managed to chase him back to bed. I had to lie down beside him to get him to shut his eyes until exhaustion won out. It'll take a few days for him to recover, but solid sleep today will help."

His words are a heavy weight on Bucky's chest. He knows Steve doesn't mean them cruelly, but Bucky still doesn't know what to say; Tony's condition is his fault.

When Bucky doesn't say anything, Steve continues, "We don't spend a lot of time asleep together, especially lately. It was nice to watch him. It inspired me to sketch some more." He gestures to the book but doesn't pick it up.

Bucky stares at Steve's hand and shifts on his feet. He tugs at the seam of his jeans, apparently unable to find words.

His dom must be growing impatient with his silences, because Steve waves toward the grass beside him. 

"Would you care to join me?"

Bucky lowers himself on the indicated patch of grass. "So. You draw?" he asks hoarsely, glad to keep the neutral topic going.

"As far back as I can remember. When my eyesight improved after the serum, I started doing a lot of landscapes, but portraiture was always my preference."

"Can I see some of them?" Bucky asks. He's surprised when Steve passes him the book without hesitation.

The front pages of the art book are filled with drawings of Tony in his lab. Some are studies of his dirty hands or the angle of his shoulders bent over a barely-sketched piece of equipment. Others are of his strong thighs and ass, the faint lines of seams and pockets the only hint that he's not naked in the drawings. Bucky's cheeks flush, and he skips ahead to a series of skylines. He pauses and looks up; one of the pages matches what he can see looking south from their current vantage point.

The last completed sketch in the book is of Tony on his side, clearly asleep in a bed. Steve has shaded in the dark shadows under his eyes that make Bucky's stomach flip guiltily. But there's a tenderness in the way Steve's rendered the peaceful expression, the suggestion of Tony's hand outstretched toward the viewer at the edge of the page as though he's reaching out even in sleep.

"He really isn't like that," Steve says gently, and Bucky hunches instinctively, like he's been caught looking at something private. "Well, the sleep deprivation, the workaholic tendencies—those are pretty standard. But what happened with Clint—the intolerance, the dynamic abuse—he's so much better than that. He's generous, not just with his money, but with himself, too. He's a good man, Bucky."

"I can tell," Bucky finally manages, voice gone hoarse with emotion as he strokes the image with one trembling finger.

"How's Clint doing?" Steve asks, gently taking the book back. Their fingers brush in the hand off, and Bucky's heart lurches, briefly overflowing with tenderness.

Bucky blinks for a moment to clear his head. "He's okay," he says as he gathers his thoughts. He's still unsure how much to share about his worries. But Steve is gazing at him with such concern that he finds himself blurting what he'd come to say in the first place, "He wants to see a SHIELD dom." 

"Natasha already spoke to me about it. It's being set up for tomorrow morning on SHIELD's floor. Are you going with them?" 

Of course she'd set it in motion already. Bucky firmly reminds himself that it's not his decision, that he should thank Steve for facilitating the process. He says nothing.

"I think it'll be good for him. I didn't know him before, but he's seemed...high strung. It'd be healthier than going without."

"I didn't notice how sick he'd gotten," Bucky admits, the confession no less painful this time. The evidence had been right in front of him all along, but he'd been absorbed with his own problems—and perhaps, comes the echo of Dugan's advice, blinded by his own faults.

Doubt makes the nerves at the base of his skull throb with a stress headache, and he abandons his next intended statement, about his concerns over Clint's vulnerability. Instead he reports, "I called Dugan."

Steve positively beams at the news. "I'm glad. I'm so proud of you for making that call. Did it go well? How do you feel now?"

Bucky ducks his head, struggling to find words to express his mixed impressions of the call. "It was good to see him again. To talk to someone who knew me... _before_." He swallows. "He's worried about our case. There's something weird going on with the military brass."

"We're prepared for interference from that contingent," Steve assures him. 

The words themselves shouldn't be enough, but somehow the acid pit in Bucky's stomach eases at Steve's confident tone. They give him the courage he needs to continue.

"Dugan agreed with you. How what we'd had wasn't real—" in his peripheral vision, Steve takes a breath to protest, "—wasn't as real as it _could be_ ," he amends.

Steve subsides, waiting patiently.

"I used to make allowances for Clint. I _pitied_ him for not having known anything better. But...but it turns out I've been lacking, too," he tells the grass just past his knees.

Steve makes a small, hurt sound, his hands twitching in Bucky's direction before they return to the spine of the book in his lap. 

Bucky stares at those strong hands, and an electric yearning for their touch has him swaying slightly toward his dom. He tries to let himself feel the pull without hating himself for such a weak craving.

"You're not alone, you know," Steve says quietly. "Before you, Jonathan was the closest thing I'd had to a relationship with a sub. It wasn't love—I always knew it was only temporary. But I hadn't had much experience. I think maybe I blurred the line for myself a little bit. If he'd been interested...." Steve sighs. "But he wasn't."

Bucky studies Steve, unsure how to respond to the admission. He considers a fumbling platitude, something trite and comforting about how well Steve must have treated the soldier. But he sees Steve looking down at the sketchbook and instead asks, "Do you have any sketches of him?"

"Not in this book. But I do have a few." Steve gives him a long look, and Bucky braces himself for prying questions. But Steve just asks, "Can I sketch you?"

The request is surprising. Bucky'd been presentable in Ms. Potts' makeup and an expensive suit, but right now he looks no better than he just had standing before Dugan. He imagines his hollow cheeks being recorded like Tony's sunken eyes and wants to retreat behind his hair. But then he thinks of the love with which Steve'd portrayed Tony's imperfections.... To be loved like that.... He hungers for it with every fiber of his body, for Steve's eyes tracing the same lines his fingers had followed nights ago on the couch, by the flickering light of a movie. 

"Ye—" He cuts off his assent sharply as other memories crowd his thoughts: Dr. Rubio's voice telling him to keep still, Ebersol's mocking laughter, the cold table. He shakes his head regretfully. He wants it, but he won't make Steve feel responsible for the inevitable panic attack. "I'd like that, but I'm not sure it's a good idea. Being forced to hold still is...not good for me."

Steve freezes where he'd already been opening the book to a new page, his face gone utterly blank, just stark planes in the bright sunlight. Only the quiver of the paper in his hand betrays his inner turmoil. Bucky can only guess what Steve's piecing together from the testimony he'd given Landis—every detail he'd omitted had been a waking nightmare. 

Bucky shifts awkwardly in the silence, uncrossing his legs to brace his arm across his bent knees. He dreads Steve's eventual response, but his dom's stillness, the extraordinary control he's exhibiting over his own hands.... A deeper yearning stirs in Bucky's chest, making his neck feel weak and his head want to bow forward.

Eventually Steve exhales and sets the book aside. 

"When you pose for me, on the day you choose to," Steve says calmly, "there won't be any orders involved. You can move or make as much noise as you want. There aren't punishments for moving." Bucky gapes at him, and Steve's voice deepens infinitesimally, his words becoming more weighted. "I want you to _want_ to hold still for me. Do you understand? The moment you stopped wanting to try, we'd stop. ...Does that sound like something you'd like to do for me?"

A trickling warmth starts filling up the space inside Bucky's lungs, suffusing his bloodstream with every breath, setting his limbs tingling. "Yes," he chokes. "That sounds like something I could—that I'd like to try."

The smallest, sweetest smile dances across Steve's lips, and Bucky's heart lights up like he's done something wonderful.

"Would now be okay?" Steve asks, already shifting to face him.

"Please," Bucky says, the word caught somewhere between graciousness and pleading.

"Okay. You're perfect just like that. Why don't you shut your eyes, darling? That way you don't have to worry about where to look."

Bucky's heavy eyelids slide shut at the gentle suggestion, reducing his world to his other senses. He hears the sounds of Steve opening the book to a new page, the rasp of his skin running across the paper to smooth it, the first strokes of his pencil. The traffic below is a muffled hum interspersed with the roar of jets landing at the nearby airports and the quick, light strokes of the pencil. The warm sun is beating down on his head, soft breeze brushing a few strands of hair across his cheek.

He's so _warm_.

"You're doing great, Bucky." There's the sound of a page turning. "Are you comfortable? Not too hot? You can take off your sweatshirt if you want."

Bucky hums, far too comfortable to consider moving. "I'm good."

"Yes, you are," Steve agrees softly, and the sound of drawing resumes. 

Bucky listens to the _shush_ of Steve's skin on the paper, the quicker sounds of his pencil, until everything else feels very far away.

Nerves flicker back to awareness like fireflies in a dark field as a bead of sweat forms on the nape of his neck and slowly rolls down his back under his layers of clothing. Bucky tries to ignore it, but he can't help but feel as a second drop starts down the same path. It's uncomfortable. He really is too hot in the May sun. He should have taken off his sweatshirt when Steve suggested it. Now he's missed his chance, and he'll have to choose between following orders or moving. His muscles start to bunch in anticipatory panic—but then he remembers that Steve said they could stop whenever he wanted to. 

Does he want to stop?

He wants to make Steve happy. 

Bucky turns his full attention back to Steve, to the sound of sketching continuing in steady strokes, to the almost imperceptible in-out of his breathing. Steve's happy like this. Right? 

He's hesitant to disturb the peace for his own comfort, but suddenly he has to know whether or not Steve's pleased with him. "Steve?" Bucky asks, more a soft interrogatory sound than a name.

"Yes, darling?" Steve murmurs back, still sketching at that same even pace. He sounds happy.

"Mmm, just checking," Bucky says, listening to the _shush_ ing sound of the graphite.

"You're being so good for me. Such a patient model."

Bucky relaxes immediately, happy to drift for a little while longer. But eventually the sweat soaking through his tee shirt becomes too much to tolerate. Bucky knows he wouldn't care about a little discomfort if he were really down, not just in this halfway space where things are distant but not erased completely. But it's okay that he's not fully dropped; Steve won't mind. Steve isn't trying to put him completely under.

Tears slip past his closed eyelids as he marvels at his dom's generosity.

"Is something wrong, Buck?"

"Hot," Bucky whines, sorry to admit it. He still doesn't move.

"Do you need a break? Can you hold on another couple of minutes, or do you want to stop now?"

"I can wait," Bucky agrees, happy to have a request to fulfill. As the seconds pass, he becomes aware of more of his body: there's an ache in his lower back, his ribs itch where a slick of sweat has run down his chest, and his forearm is bruising where his chin is digging into it. The last few seconds of stillness are downright arduous, but there's a clear end in sight, and Bucky knows it's his own decision to hold still.

When Steve says, "All done," Bucky finally blinks his eyes open. The world is blindingly bright, but Steve's smile is more brilliant.

He rubs his eyes to adjust. The sun has moved substantially since they'd started—nearly an hour ago.

"You look terribly pleased with yourself," Bucky observes, trying to appear unaffected but secretly elated to have caused his dominant such happiness—and more than a little impressed with himself, too. He hadn't known he had that in him.

"I won't deny that," Steve says, failing to rein in his smile.

Bucky wants to keep up the dreamy flirting, but he really is desperate to get out of his hoodie. Steve waits patiently while Bucky unzips and shrugs out of the garment on his own, and Bucky's heart flips all over again with gratitude for being trusted to handle it himself.

The realization dawns slowly: Steve hadn't touched him at all. He hadn't used touch or the voice, but he'd still managed to send Bucky to...what was that, exactly?

"Get some good sketches?" he asks, rather than reveal his ignorance.

Steve nods. "You seemed very relaxed. I'm glad I could help."

Bucky supposes he can't argue with that. He pulls up the hem of his tee shirt to mop his brow, then raises his arm and twists side to side to loosen up the muscles in his back. When he's satisfied that he's worked the kinks out, he lays back on the grass. He takes a second to arrange the bionic arm at his side before tucking his good hand behind his head and sighing.

When Steve doesn't do anything, Bucky opens his eyes, taking in the blue sky above. "Well?"

"Are we still going?" Steve asks, surprised.

"I didn't say I wanted to stop, did I? Do you want another pose or not?" A smile sneaks past Bucky's efforts to keep a straight face.

"My mistake," he says, amused.

Bucky gives up trying to hide his smile, luxuriating in the softness of the grass, the warmth of his dom's full attention. He watches the contrail of a jet slowly dissipate into the clear sky and marvels at how pleasant the experience had been, how delicately he'd balanced in that altered mind state. Steve had provided just enough reassurances to keep him floaty without giving a single order that would risk pushing him further than he wanted to go.

Bucky had never tried something like that. All his life, interactions with doms had been perfunctory, with him just as impatient for the drop as them. The dominant voice is like a rip tide, a force he could brace himself against, a chance to prove himself in the struggle. But Steve's voice had barely changed at all—certainly nowhere near the point where it would challenge Bucky's control. 

This had been playful, more an invitation than a battering ram. Pleasure suffuses him at the charming thought, and he checks in with his body, feeling where tension from the past few days has evaporated. Very successful, indeed. He wonders that he'd never tried something like this with Dugan, who surely would have been as patient and encouraging.

He replays Dugan's words in his head and can no longer deny their truth. Of course it came down to trust. Not that Dugan hadn't been trustworthy, but that Bucky hadn't been interested in trusting him without retaining control. His smile dims somewhat at the thought of the lost opportunity, how Dugan must have felt to know Bucky didn't choose to trust him.

Something else Dugan said comes back to him, and Bucky's whole body twitches once in alarm: Dugan's words had reminded Bucky of Steve's; they'd both been in relationships of convenience. Had Steve done this with Jonathan? Maybe that sub had been braver than Bucky was with Dugan. Maybe he'd responded to Steve the way Bucky just did.

Almost before he finishes the thought, he's asking, "Do you think Jonathan trusted you?" without stopping to consider what it would do to Steve.

The sound of pencil on paper ceases. 

After a long minute Steve says, "I like to believe he did, at least for some things. But I don't know." Pain is palpable in his voice, and Bucky wishes he could take back the question. "He'd repeat our ground rules every time, like he was afraid I'd forget."

Just a few days ago Bucky would have loudly defended Jonathan's right to hold himself as aloof as he wished, but now he can't imagine any sub who could hold out against Steve's intense goodness.

"Maybe that was for him, so _he_ wouldn't forget," he suggests, hoping to assuage some of Steve's pain. "Do you think—if you hadn't fallen in the ice—do you think he would have changed his mind? That he would have wanted more?" 

Steve's voice is thick with grief when he says, "He was killed in a firefight along the banks of the Little Danube. It was just a few weeks before I.... I wasn't there. We were spread out flanking a convoy, and I was 500 yards away."

The last of Bucky's warm glow evaporates in an instant, leaving cold in its wake. 

"I'm sorry," Bucky stammers. He'd give anything to have never asked the question, to not have shattered their peace. "I didn't know."

"It was war. It killed a lot of good men and women—doms, subs, and neutrals alike," Steve says with a practiced detachment that Bucky doesn't believe. 

Steve resumes sketching while Bucky's mind reels, attempting to process this new information. Steve had grieved—still grieves—for a submissive that, as far as he knows, had never wanted or trusted him. He'd lived with the knowledge that he was unwanted...for all his life, Bucky realizes, recalling Steve's stories of the state clinic, of Peggy Carter taking him in hand.

It's utterly unfair. Steve has so much love and respect to give—couldn't Jonathan see how Steve would give his own sub anything in his power? Could any submissive be so blind?

If anything, Jonathan must have had to struggle to hold himself back. ...Or maybe he'd had too many of his own defenses to lower them easily.

A puff of wind on his damp clothes makes Bucky shiver. He reconsiders his own behavior toward Steve, how he'd shied away, lashed out, and ultimately _used_ him to ensure safety for his friends and himself. And in return Steve had offered him the same selfless protection he'd given Jonathan. And a heart even less defended.

Bucky's eyes water, this time with bitter regret, and he blinks fast to clear them. He's got so much to make up for. All those innocent victims. And those he cares about: Clint, Natasha, Tony, Steve. He'd promised Steve that he'd try—and he's going to start now.

"He would have changed his mind, Steve. I'm sure of it," he says, throat tight, strangling the words.

Steve inhales sharply but says nothing.

"He would have trusted you with his whole self. How could he not?"

Without looking up, Steve shuts the book and rests his fingers on the cover. "Thank you, Bucky," he says finally. "That helps."

Bucky exhales shakily, relieved to have gotten his point across. 

Aware that everything between them is tender and raw, he asks, "Back when you were a kid, did you used to look at the clouds and point out shapes?"

Steve huffs. "I'm pretty sure folks have been doing that forever." 

"Then come lie down next to me and find shapes in the clouds."

"There aren't any clouds."

Bucky sticks out his tongue. "Then come lie down next to me so I can take a nap."

Steve's laughter is soft, still more tentative than Bucky wants, but a good start. "Okay, Buck," his dom says, and sets the book aside to lie beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How important is trust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my betas, samanthahirr and windsweptfic, who helped make this chapter better than I ever could have alone.

"No, really, I'm fine. I'm happy to help," Bucky answers, schooling his features into a smile. He dutifully directs his attention back to the skillet, taking care to turn the contents evenly without accidentally tipping the pan. 

It's been hours since they went downstairs. He looks at the elevator again; still no sign of them.

Bucky only realizes that Steve's been humming when his dom stops and clears his throat. Bucky's eyes guiltily drop back to the stove.

"It hasn't been all that long, Buck. Jarvis would tell us if there was any problem. Jarvis?"

_"That is correct, Captain. Would you like a status update?"_

"I'm sure everything's fine," Bucky says quickly. After Dugan's lecture about trust and the subsequent progress he's made with Steve, he doesn't want to show his dom how worried he is. It could be seen as a lack of trust.

In his peripheral vision, Bucky catches Steve looking at him.

"That's not necessary. Thank you, Jarvis," Steve says after a damning pause.

Bucky pokes halfheartedly at the ground beef in his pan and waits for Steve to call him on his worrying. It's a relief when Steve instead pronounces the meat cooked and puts Bucky in charge of layering lasagna ingredients in a large casserole dish. The task requires extra concentration to perform one-handed, and he loses track of time before he finishes.

"That looks perfect, Buck. Here, why don't you sprinkle this on top while I—" 

Bucky jumps at the barely audible chime of the elevator and bumps into Steve, accidentally stepping on his foot. He gets an unexpected jolt from the contact: their first touch of the day. Bucky stammers out a distracted apology, already craning his neck to see the doors slide open.

"It's fine. Go check on them. I'll get this in the oven."

Natasha's stepping off the elevator with her arm around Clint's waist. He appears to be supporting his own weight, but with his face tucked into her hair, he's clearly relying on her guidance as she leads him toward the couches.

Heart in his throat, Bucky grabs a dishtowel to awkwardly clean his hand while he hurries out to meet them. He's too far away to help when Clint lurches sideways and lands on top of Natasha on the couch cushions.

"Ugh, off. Get off me!" she grunts, swatting lightly at Clint's arms.

Clint giggles softly and doesn't budge.

"Is he...how is he?" Bucky asks, hovering anxiously.

Natasha pushes her hair out of her face with one hand and shoves at Clint's shoulder with the other. "Here, take him. Ask him yourself."

Clint finally raises his head and blinks around at the room. When he spots Bucky, he launches himself off of Natasha with impressive speed, hug-tackling Bucky onto the opposite end of the couch.

Bucky catches only a glimpse of his smile before Clint buries his face in Bucky's neck, but it's enough. He returns Clint's hug, relieved that his friend is unharmed, and grateful to have been forgiven after yesterday's painful conversation. Only now realizing how much he's missed their former closeness, Bucky steals several minutes wrapped up with his friend, the only sounds Clint's contented sighing and Steve rattling around in the kitchen.

When Clint's weight finally gets to be too much, Bucky pets his hair and says, "Getting kinda heavy there, _solnyshko_." He doesn't get an answer beyond a short snuffle. "Hey, Clint. _Clint_ ," he says with increasing urgency. He shakes Clint's shoulder. "How're you doing, buddy? Come on, let me see your face."

Clint grumbles but does eventually push up a few inches and meet his eyes.

Bucky sighs with relief to see that Clint's eyes are clear, not still glazed over with submission. However deep he went this morning, he's come out of it just fine. _Happy_ , even, and Bucky can't resist ruffling Clint's hair and matching his wide smile.

Clint rolls his eyes and drops down on Bucky's chest again. Bucky _oofs_ in token protest but is too pleased to struggle. 

"So how was it?"

Clint stretches in a slow, happy shudder that Bucky feels down the length of his body. "So good." 

"Yeah? You're still feeling good, it looks like." Bucky glances over at Natasha, who's moved to perch on the heavy coffee table. She reaches over and drags her nails across Clint's scalp, making him shiver. 

"Nng, so awesome," he sighs.

Bucky rubs Clint's back, noting that he's wearing multiple sweatshirts—he must have been scared going down to see the SHIELD dominant. It's good that Bucky hadn't gotten to see him this morning; if he'd detected this sign of nerves at the time, he'd have insisted on accompanying him despite Clint's preference.

"You were nervous?"

"Nah."

Bucky lets the lie slide and hugs him tighter. "I'm glad it was good. Do you want to talk about it? What was it like?"

Clint mock groans. "There was paperwork. I just wanted to go under, but it took forever to get to it."

"You didn't sign anything, right?" Bucky asks, shooting Natasha a quick look.

"I'm not stupid," Clint scoffs. "Nat still made me read everything, though. It was so boring, page after page about limits and expectations, whatever. And after all of that, I just had to give verbal consent. Waste of time."

"That's kind of how I remember the state clinic, actually. It sounds like they got you a real professional."

"Mmm, she was nice. Reminded me of one of the docs from my old program." 

Bucky goes still, uncomfortable with any positive reflection on the Concordance 'doctors' that had twisted Clint's submissive instincts. "Clint, you knew you couldn't trust her, though, right? I mean, just because she's a dominant, or reminded you of someone.... She could still have tried to make you do something—" 

Clint pokes him between two ribs. "Of course I didn't trust her. That's why Nat was there, looking out for me. We told her she wasn't allowed to give me any orders, and Nat made sure."

"Okay. That was really great planning, you guys. And you didn't have to kneel, right? You had a chair at least?"

"It was fine. There was a nice sofa I got to curl up on with Nat, and the domme was in a chair. She just held my hand, that's it. She said some really nice things," Clint sighs dreamily. 

Bucky pets him again through the thick layers of clothing and marvels at how different he seems from those last, increasingly desperate months on the run. He's finally relaxed, all that tightly held tension vanished without a trace. It's a good change for him.

He can't help but compare Clint's current state to the way he himself had felt yesterday, after his time on the roof with Steve. Bucky'd been relaxed and optimistic then, but nowhere near Clint's blissful bonelessness. Is the problem with him, he wonders, as Dugan had implied? Or maybe he just didn't go far enough with Steve. Maybe his dom should have been hands on? But Steve doesn't like to touch him—or doesn't seem to trust himself to. Maybe if Steve had asked more of him? But apparently the domme hadn't given Clint any orders at all.

Bucky sighs and tries to push the thoughts of his failures with Steve aside. Looking at Clint now, he's forced to admit that his fears and objections to the therapeutic domme seem foolish in the face of such a positive outcome. 

"You're doing really well. I think it was good for you," Bucky assures Clint. He glances over at Natasha, seeking confirmation of Clint's description of the experience, and it belatedly occurs to him that she could have taken a turn with the SHIELD dominant, too. There wouldn't have been a reason not to; she's strong enough to look out for herself and Clint even when dropped. 

But there's no languor in Natasha's posture. If anything, she seems more agitated than normal, arms drawn in close and a tight blankness around her eyes. She definitely didn't avail herself of the morning's opportunity. Bucky wonders whether she, too, is jealous of Clint's uncomplicated ability to relax.

The sounds of Steve washing dishes disturb Clint from his doze. He shifts restlessly and digs an elbow right into Bucky's sternum, putting an end to Bucky's troubling train of thought. 

"Oww! Alright, that's it. Get up," Bucky groans, pushing them both to a seated position. He makes sure to keep close, though, and sure enough, Clint snuggles up beside him. 

"I'm really happy for you," Bucky says, threading his fingers between Clint's. "That you got what you needed. I'm sorry about all that shit I said before. I shouldn't have been trying to prevent this."

Clint sighs, long and heartfelt, and more serious than Bucky had thought he was capable of being just now. 

"I get it now. At least...I think I get what you were thinking," Clint says tentatively. "I know my experiences weren't what anyone would call normal. I never had something like this before—something just for me, just because I needed it. This was...really good. Safe. I didn't even feel gross afterward." 

Bucky smiles and rubs his cheek against the shaggy hair atop Clint's head.

"I think maybe we're not the same, that we were never gonna be the same. I need it more than you do. I'm not ashamed of that." Clint tenses then, his grip on Bucky's hand tightening—almost as though he wants to prevent escape. "Just because you knew about this kind of thing and I didn't, that doesn't mean my way didn't work for me. I always knew how to get what I needed, Buck, even when there wasn't paperwork."

Bucky pulls away with growing concern. He'd thought Clint had learned a lesson today, about how it could be good, how he could submit without debasing himself.

Clint reacts quickly, twining his arms around his shoulders to forestall his retreat. He buries his face in Bucky's neck again and whispers, "I was pissed at you." 

Bucky holds his breath, suddenly afraid of everything Clint might say next. Is he angry about being trapped here? About going without a dom for the past year? About all the times Bucky hurt him, especially after failing to kill Jurzyca— 

"Ebersol was mine first, you know." 

Bucky jerks violently and shoves Clint away. "What?"

"It was before you came. Before Nat," Clint says, ducking his head and playing with the zipper of his topmost hoodie. "Mentallo didn't want me anymore after the kid. Once he'd won, he stopped bothering with rewards. So I had to get it somewhere else." 

"Oh my god," Bucky hears himself say, the words falling uselessly between them. He glances at Natasha, but her inscrutable poker face is locked in position. Only the tilt of her head betrays her fierce interest.

Clint shrinks down a little deeper but continues, "Ebersol was evil, I knew that. But he was a dom, and he was _there_." 

"But he's—" Bucky gasps, shaking his head frantically. Ebersol was a monster, a sadist of the highest order. A tide of memories surges up, threatening to sweep Bucky away. The _click click click_ of the straps tightening, the smell of burnt wires and the taste of blood in his mouth—

"He was—" Bucky tries again, but this time it's the laughter, the feel of silk sheets under his hands and knees, and the questions, the endless _questions_ when the answer was always yes, _had to be_ yes. And now he can't help picturing Clint in his place, happy to be there, willing and wanting it, and he's going to be sick.

" _No_ , Clint." He scrambles to the end of the couch, as though putting space between them will distance him from his friend's horrifying words.

"I didn't care! He paid attention to me when Mentallo wouldn't, and I _needed_ it, Buck. You've never understood how that feels. But then you came along, and he only wanted you. You took him from me. And I knew you didn't mean to—I tried not to blame you. You were stronger than me, a challenge. Hell, you hated him. Of course he forgot about me." 

Bucky shudders, appalled. He catches himself chanting a low string of "Fuck fuck fuck fuck..." under his breath.

"I was never really angry with you, not then. I understood you didn't have a choice. But when that dick Landis was here, you said you used to run interference with the doms, you deliberately kept him and the others away from me. Like I couldn't make any decisions for myself. I was so mad, I couldn't see straight."

Some remote part of Bucky's brain notes that this explains why Clint had pulled away from him the last couple of days. But the rest of him is still on that table, in that bedroom, in a crowded hallway, watching Clint thank Ebersol for the privilege of— 

Natasha's foot connects sharply with his shin, snapping his attention back to the present. She huffs impatiently and rolls her eyes significantly at Clint, and Bucky finally takes in the distance between them, the way Clint is knotting his fingers anxiously.

"Clint," he croaks, holding out his hand, but Clint doesn't budge. Cursing inwardly, Bucky replays his friend's last words. _Oh._ It's what they'd talked about yesterday. He rubs his hand over his face instead. "Look, I know you didn't care what happened to you, but they were hurting you. I couldn't watch that." 

"So instead I had to watch them hurt _you_? How was that better?" Clint demands.

Bucky blinks, speechless, and Clint forges ahead. 

" _I_ wouldn't have minded it, but _you_ hated every minute of it. Don't deny it—you said as much downstairs. Do you have any idea how shitty I feel? You were already giving up so much for us, but you kept taking punishment you didn't need to."

He shakes his head, wondering how things got so twisted up between them. "No. It didn't matter how I felt; it was my job to protect you—" 

"I never asked you to. Not like that." 

"You didn't have to, Clint. I owe you. It's my duty—"

"A duty that is _done_ ," Natasha snaps, suddenly towering over them both, her voice hoarse with atypical vehemence, hands in fists at her sides. "It's over. We're not your responsibility anymore. You should be living your own life now, not still insisting on taking all the risk on yourself. You're ruining your future—"

"There's no future that doesn't involve you two. I swore I'd always protect you—"

"We never wanted that promise!" she storms. She grabs his shoulder in a vice-like grip, nails digging into his flesh. "If you hadn't been such a fucking hero, it wouldn't have been necessary."

"I chose to give it! It was my decision to make."

Her laugh is short and ugly.

An alarm beeps distantly—the kitchen timer, he realizes—and she releases him as though burned.

"Tasha," Bucky starts, but she turns her back. "No, come on. What is it?"

Facing the windows, she says, "Clint and I will look after ourselves now. You should focus on your own problems."

Bucky flinches. "What? No. You can't shut me out like that."

"Ugh, just stop it," Clint groans loudly, climbing back on top of Bucky and covering his mouth to keep him from responding. "This is ruining my afterglow. It was so good this morning."

Bucky glares at him, annoyed but not struggling, and Clint leans forward, pressing his forehead to Bucky's.

"I get it now, okay? I didn't know I could have it like that before. So I get why what you saw me do with the HYDRA doms upset you. But I was okay, Buck. I wasn't your problem to fix. I may have been weak, but I was surviving." 

Bucky mumbles against Clint's fingers, wanting to protest the epithet.

"Just say you're sorry. And you're going to try harder," Clint tells him, fond expression belying his stern tone.

Bucky wants to keep fighting; he can't just abnegate his responsibility for them. They don't get to make that choice for him. But he looks in Clint's eyes, kind and pleading, and relents with a nod. 

With a return nod, Clint finally removes his hand.

"I am, Clint. I'm sorry. And I'll do better. I'll...I'll hold your hand next time you go, okay?" Bucky's still not one hundred percent comfortable with the idea, but he'll be supportive of Clint's need to submit if it means he won't be shut out again.

Clint sighs and slings his arms around Bucky's neck. "Thank god. You're a way better pillow than Nat."

Bucky lets Clint settle back on top of him and attempts to relax once more under his weight. He tries to focus on the good that'd occurred this morning, on the genuine relief he feels for Clint—that the session with the domme had gone well, that he'd been safe, that he's still safe here in Bucky's embrace. He rests his hand between Clint's shoulder blades, eternally grateful that his friend has never flinched from his touch.

When he looks for Natasha, he discovers her sulking down at the far end of the sofa. When he catches her eye, she sighs and wraps the elegant fingers of one hand around his ankle, thumbnail scratching lightly at the bare skin above his sock. 

Bucky must drift off for a minute, because when he opens his eyes, Steve's standing above them, staring like he wishes he could draw their tableau.

"Lunch is ready, if you're hungry," he says softly. The smile he directs at Clint is incandescent.

The promise of food proves sufficient motivation to get Clint to let Bucky go, and they all tumble gladly into their seats at the table. Bucky's lasagna is hot and filling; Clint eats two whole servings and sinks low in his chair, groaning happily.

More than once during the meal, Bucky notices Steve beaming across the table at Clint, his dominant instincts on full display like they'd been the night after their surgeries. It makes Bucky's breath catch in his throat, makes him ache with just how much he loves his dom. 

But in the quiet moments, when there's a lull in the conversation, he catches Steve looking at the empty seat at the head of the table, and his heart plummets. He's screwed up all of his relationships, and he's also driven a wedge between Tony and Steve, loving husbands who deserved so much better than him. 

It's on him to make it right.

\---

_"You may proceed, Mr. Barnes. The doors will open automatically."_

"He hasn't locked me out?" Bucky blurts incredulously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It hadn't occurred to him until he was standing in this hallway, but now it's the only possibility that makes sense. After the times he'd cornered Tony alone here, surely his dom would have barred him from re-entry.

 _"You have permission to enter,"_ the AI reports blandly.

Bucky's tempted to feel relieved, but he tells himself he knows better. Tony probably just forgot to revoke his access; in his exhausted state, who knows what's slipped his mind.

The doors open at his approach as promised, and Bucky flinches from the sudden barrage of sound. The throbbing beat of Tony's music is shatteringly loud; Bucky would cover his ears, but his only hand is already full. His grip tightens reflexively on the plate, and the rattle of the precariously balanced silverware is lost beneath the music.

He steps cautiously through the doorway and discovers Tony at the same workstation as last time, the table before him crowded with tools and small pieces of metal. There's a hologram schematic glowing electric blue in the air above him. Bucky can't make sense of the shape from this angle, but his throat goes tight with sudden hope, and he steps slowly to the side, watching as the form resolves into—

Bucky blinks fiercely against a surge of emotion. He'd hoped, but he hadn't let himself really believe—

In the corner of Bucky's eye, Tony's hands go suddenly still. Bucky looks away from the hologram of his arm to find Tony staring at him with narrowed eyes. Tony's mouth moves in a short statement that Bucky can't hear, and the music cuts out, leaving Bucky's ears ringing in the silence while his dom turns in his chair to confront him.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Tony demands. "Never mind. Jarvis!"

_"Sir."_

"I explicitly ordered that that—" 

_"My apologies for not notifying you sooner,"_ Jarvis says, smoothly talking over him. _"Captain Stark requested the security override. As you are aware, protocols have long been in place regarding your wellbeing. The Captain made a compelling argument that—"_

"Mute!" Tony snaps, and the disembodied voice stops mid-sentence. "We're going to have a long talk about your loyalty protocols, buddy. Until then, I think you'd better keep your mouth shut.

"And you," he continues, turning his cold gaze back to Bucky. "What do you think you're doing here?" 

Bucky's foot slides backward without his conscious direction. The dark circles below Tony's eyes lend his stare an alarming intensity. Bucky can practically feel Tony's anger, barely leashed behind his outward composure. "We missed you at lunch," he manages, gesturing with the plate of lasagna.

"Not hungry." He turns away.

"You've been skipping meals for the last few days. You need to eat." 

"Why, is it poisoned?" Tony asks without looking up.

"Of course it's not—!" Bucky cuts himself off, helpless and furious. He wants to shout, to berate Tony into eating and taking care of himself, but such an outburst would only prompt him to shut down further. 

He takes a deep breath, swallows his frustration, and says, "Fine. I'll leave it here. You can eat it later." 

He marches up to the work bench, trying to ignore the way Tony's shoulders hunch at his proximity. There isn't any clear space, so he slides the plate onto the edge of the table and uses it to shove the clutter out of the way.

This close, the progress that Tony's made on his replacement arm is remarkable. Just a few days ago, it'd been a bundle of wires. Now there's a framework of pistons and circuitry, half covered by gleaming metal plates. The exposed hinge that must be the elbow joint, and the other the wrist. Both ends of the limb currently ending in trailing wires. He stares for a long moment, fascinated. Ebersol used to open his arm up and force Bucky to watch him tinker, but he'd never seen this deep into the inner workings. 

Eventually his attention strays from the complex bionics to Tony's strong hands, which are wrapped tight around the forearm and a short length of wire. His knuckles are white with the force of his frozen grip, casting the small red scratches and burns that dot his grimy hands in stark relief. Tony's condition hits Bucky like a physical blow to his chest, disrupting the spell of covetous hope he'd been lost in, and he steps back quickly.

The hunted curl of Tony's posture doesn't relax until Bucky's backed off; it's a dart of pain in Bucky's heart to see this evidence that it's his fault Tony's so stressed and mistrustful. It's his fault that Tony's been working himself so hard, hurting all the while. He has to find a way to reach his dom, to stop this unhealthy spiral and get them back on track.

"Tony, please, let's talk. Let me explain—"

"Save your excuses for Steve. We both know he's a sucker for them."

"I've already apologized to Steve. I'm here to apologize to you." Tony ignores him and reaches for a pair of pliers, but Bucky continues. "I know I hurt you. I took advantage of your feelings for me. It wasn't right, and I'm sorry. I'm going to try harder. If you'll give me another chance—"

"To do what? Ruin more of my life? Haven't you already done enough?" Tony demands without looking at him, gesturing broadly with the tool in his hand. 

"I'm trying to fix things between us. Can't you just—. Just, please, let me explain?" 

"This should be good." Tony turns his chair to face him again, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest, expression locked in the cool, public smile Bucky can't stand. "The floor is all yours." 

"I'm sorry for how I acted," Bucky starts. When he hesitates, trying to find the words to explain, Tony's lips twist in a sneer, and Bucky rushes to get out the rest before his dom can interrupt. "I should have trusted you. But I was so fixated on our bond as a way to buy their safety, I thought I had to...convince you." 

"Seduce me, you mean." 

"I...yes. But it wasn't like that, I—" 

"Get me alone. Pretend to need me. Prey on my—. Christ. Were the panic attacks even real?" Tony asks angrily, his closed-off posture loosening as he leans forward.

"What?"

"You know how I got this, don't you?" he accuses, palm smacking the arc reactor where it glows dimly through his tee shirt. "Of course you must, to have played me like that. It wouldn't take more than a little research, a little imagination to guess I'd have issues with captivity and non-consensual body modification. Just fake a flashback or two, and I roll right over like a dog. My god, you shot me in the back, but somehow _I_ ended up comforting _you?_ You played me like a fiddle."

The accusation leaves Bucky light-headed with horror. Of course he'd known about Afghanistan—everyone in the world knows about the months Tony Stark was missing. But Bucky'd been too wrapped up in his own remembered terrors to even consider Tony's. He can remember Tony talking to him about PTSD in the medical suite. How had Bucky failed to recognize the voice of experience, to consider the ramifications? 

But maybe subconsciously he had. Natasha had accused him of manipulating her greatest fear. And apparently he's been targeting Clint's own vulnerability for years without knowing it. Now he watches Tony rub at the machine in his chest and thinks about the times he'd seen that gesture as a show of weakness, a sign he was getting his way. Somehow he'd known.

Bucky shakes his head, hand over his mouth. "I didn't think.... I didn't mean to—" 

Tony talks over his fumbling reply, voice sharp with derision. "Hell, you barely had to pretend. That's the worst part of it; I was falling over myself to believe you wanted me."

"I did want you!" Bucky blurts. "I mean I _do!_ Tony, when we kissed—" He cuts himself off when Tony's expression goes stormy at the memory. Bucky drags his hand through his hair and tries again. "I wanted it to be real. I wanted to have you both forever."

For a brief instant Tony's eyes widen and his lips twitch with pain. But then that fake smile returns, the mask settling back into place. His tone is flat when he says, "Well, you've got us. The money, the influence: it's all yours now. That puppet show of a press conference—you got exactly what you wanted."

"I didn't want those things!" Bucky insists, knowing how implausible that must sound. "I didn't, Tony—not like that. I didn't _want_ to do that to you and Steve."

Tony raises his eyebrows, unimpressed.

"But I needed those things for Clint and Natasha. I needed everything you could give us—yes, the money, the press. It was the only way to keep them safe."

"Bullshit. We were already keeping you all safe. We were working with SHIELD—" 

"Director Fury warned you that time was up; they were coming to take us away. "

Tony dismisses Bucky's justifications with a wave of his hand. "We were ready to defend you."

"Me, maybe, but my friends? And for how long? Against what odds?"

Tony gawks at him. "You really think I'd hand over _any_ innocent to be punished for something they didn't do? That Steve would?" he demands.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth, searching for words to reply. His doubts had seemed justified at the time: Steve's decision to put off bonding had been suspicious; his friends had just confessed to a series of horrific crimes, and Bucky's own had been about to come to light. Forcing the bond had seemed like his only option.

Now he knows better, but it's too late.

"I'm sorry," he finally says helplessly. "I was wrong."

"Get out," Tony orders harshly, turning back to his desk.

"Tony, please."

Bucky jumps when Tony slams a tool down onto the table. 

"No!" Tony snarls, finally losing his cool. He keeps his face turned away as he continues, "I loved you, James. I waited for you. Even now, after everything, the things I'd still do for you terrify me. But you don't get to do this. You—"

A buzzer sounds in the lab, and Tony seems to catch himself. He ducks his head back over his work.

Mourning the loss of whatever breakthrough they'd been having, Bucky looks around for the source of the intermittent noise, spotting the words _Incoming Call_ flashing on a large screen. Tony seems to be ignoring it, so Bucky tries again.

"I'm sorry, Tony. I was selfish. I was an idiot. Please, can't you just...." He trails off. His dom won't acknowledge him speaking. The buzzer continues to sound in the silence. "Look, just answer the phone, then."

"It's nothing," Tony mumbles irritably, hunting through the clutter before him before picking up a new wire.

"You haven't even checked who it is!"

"Pepper's hounding me, that's all."

"What if it's important?"

"She thinks I'm making a mistake. She's right," he huffs ruefully. "Doesn't mean I need to listen to another lecture."

Bucky's memories of Ms. Potts revolve around her worry for Tony, her too-astute accusations that he'd tormented his doms. She'd been right to worry then; putting Bucky first is what's reduced Tony to his present state. So while something greedy and painful deep in Bucky's chest thrills to see Tony forgoing everything to work on his arm, it's time his dom focused on his normal life again.

"The arm can wait for a phone call. It could be important." When Tony's only response is to shake his head and grumble something about _finishing_ under his breath, Bucky continues, "You're putting too much pressure on yourself to work on it. You have plenty of time, right? Steve said you guys have a plan."

"Oh, yeah," Tony snorts, voice thick with sarcasm. "There's a plan alright."

Doubt hits hard and fast, reclaiming the territory it had lost over the last few days. Why would Tony mock his own plan? What mistake is he making? Why _is_ he so anxious to complete his work on Bucky's new arm? Bucky'd thought he was just hiding from the world, or frantic to fix what he broke. Is there something else wrong that his doms haven't told him about?

Bucky attempts to cut off that line of thinking before it can continue. He's supposed to trust his doms. He can't appear to doubt them again.

But in the suddenly ominous silence, the monitor finally stops flashing. His stomach flips like the floor's dropped out from under him. What if it wasn't Ms. Potts calling? What if it was Fury?

Adrenalin burns his tongue. Things are spiraling out of control. There's no more time for squeamishness; he needs to fix things _now_.

"I love you," Bucky says in the silent lab, to the back of Tony's head.

No response. Bucky swallows and tries again.

"I'm in love with you, Tony," he says, meaning it with every fiber of his body.

Tony sighs and drags his scarred hands over his face. 

"You know, up until a few days ago, I would have done anything to hear those words," he says with a low chuckle. He hasn't turned around. "But it's too late now, sweetheart. Remind me, what was it you said just hours after we bonded? I 'made it _easy_.' Yeah, we're done here."

"I should never have said those things. I didn't really mean them. Not like that. Not like I let you think. I was just...I was scared, Tony. You were so in love with me, and when I realized what I'd done to you, I panicked."

"You panicked," Tony echoes, turning to eye him incredulously.

Bucky struggles to speak, the words coming only trippingly as he ventures onto dangerous ground, "I thought...it was better if...if you rejected me right away. Just got it over with."

Tony's fist hits the table, making a terrible clatter as he jumps to his feet. "'Got it over with?' We bonded with you! We claimed you in front of the world on live TV! What the hell do you mean, 'got it over with'?"

"The way you talked about me, you didn't really want me—just some idealized version of a bondmate. And I wanted to be that for you, but it was never going to last."

"Why, because I would have done anything for you? Loved you too hard, taken too good care of you?"

"You would have changed your mind!" Bucky snaps desperately. 

The words hang between them.

The wounded expression creeps across Tony's face again, lingering a few seconds longer this time before morphing into outrage. "When did I give you that impression?" he shouts.

Bucky looks away.

"No, answer me. I want to know. Because I've stood by you, Bucky. You ran from me for a year, and I held out hope. I've watched every interview you gave SHIELD; I heard every confession, and I still defended you. There was nothing that could turn me against you. Nothing you could do—except use me to hurt my husband and throw it in my face. And even that..." Tony's voice fails him for a moment, and he turns his face away until he's composed himself. "Even that I could forgive. That's how pathetic I am. But I won't waste forgiveness on someone who refuses to trust me."

"I trust you!"

"Bullshit. You just said you rushed to dump me before I could dump you. I'm still waiting for a reason why."

Bucky goes absolutely still. He's made it all the way through the interrogations with the secret intact, and he's just started trying for something permanent with Steve. Even with Tony's tempting offer of forgiveness, he doesn't dare.

He can't tell them that everything they believe about him is built on a lie.

Tony's studying him like he's a particularly disgusting insect, waiting for his answer. 

Cornered, Bucky instead offers a lesser sin he'd been trying to hide: "I have a hard time trusting. It's just...how I am."

Tony's expression goes blank. It wasn't enough. Bucky has to do better.

"I'm trying, though! I'm working through some stuff with Tasha and Clint. I let Steve...well, Steve and I...." Bucky trails off, still not sure what to call what they'd done—and equally uncertain whether bringing it up would help or hinder things with Tony. "I know I don't show it well, but I do trust you."

His dom just laughs quietly and shakes his head, walking away.

There's a rushing in Bucky's ears, all his hopes slipping through his fingers. 

Tony leans over his desk, weight braced on his hands. After a long moment he looks up at the hovering hologram of Bucky's future arm, flicking it once and sending the 3D construct spinning slowly in mid-air.

Bucky forces himself to look away from the image of a complete replacement for the limb he'd lost, and focuses instead on the tension in Tony's shoulders, the weary curve of his spine. His heart aches to fix this, to repair the hurt he's caused. He can't just walk out with everything still in ashes between them, for Tony’s sake as well as his own.

"Tony," he starts miserably.

"Whatever you're about to say, don't," Tony says without turning. “I'm not interested in any more manipulations, so don't even try."

"I'm not trying to manipulate you! I'm trying to get you to believe me! You've been shutting me down nonstop. What's it going to take to fix this? Because I'll do it, Tony. I'll do whatever it takes to make things right between us. Just tell me what I'm supposed to do to make it up to you!"

"I've told you what you can do: get out of my lab and leave me _in fucking peace_. I can't work if I'm watching my back for your next knife."

Bucky recoils at the accusation. He's accomplished nothing; Tony hasn't believed any of his attempts to apologize. Bucky pictures sitting beside Steve at dinner tonight, trying to ignore his sorrowful eyes when they stray to Tony's empty seat.

Steve's smiles at lunch had been real. He'd been genuinely happy and relaxed lately, starting with on the roof, when it was just the two of them. ...When Bucky had managed to trust him enough to go under even a little.

Bucky blinks at the unexpected thought. Maybe he could do that again. Maybe he could— He hesitates, biting his lip. It'd be a tangible display of trust, if he could pull it off. If he didn't freak out and ruin everything. 

With a deep breath, he steps closer. "It hurts to see you like this. Give me a chance to earn back your trust, Tony. I can be good for you, I swear. Please let me try."

 _That_ gets Tony's attention, and he whips his head around.

"Is that...is that something you'd be willing to...?" Bucky asks nervously. "On the jet, that was good between us. We trusted each other then. Maybe if we—"

"Let me fill you in on something, sweetheart, because for some reason you just haven't gotten it yet." Tony stalks toward him, his movements loose and self-assured in a way Bucky's never seen from him.

Bucky gapes, speechless, as Tony intrudes all the way into his personal space.

"For starters, I don't dom when I'm angry. And I'm very, _very_ angry with you, sugarplum." 

Tony begins to circle him, and Bucky finds his feet rooted to the floor. 

"I don't tolerate subs who play mind games. I don't want a sub with an agenda. If I tell you to kneel, it's because _you_ want to do it."

Tony's hand lands on his shoulder, and Bucky stiffens automatically at the unexpected touch from behind. But when Tony squeezes, Bucky's knees wobble under his dom's confident hand.

"I need to be able to trust you completely. I need a sub that I can _believe_ will tell me what he needs, so that when you're down there, when you're sitting there looking at me like you'll do anything I ask, I _know_ that I'm taking care of you the way you really want."

Shivering involuntarily, Bucky hears himself whispering, "Yes, that.... Please...." He's not sure what he's asking for, half terrified, half on fire with need. Tony's voice hasn't even shifted into his dominant register, yet somehow the images he's conjuring have Bucky's head swimming.

But Tony doesn't wait for him to finish his plea.

"Most importantly," Tony says, and pauses. He leans in close, his chest barely brushing Bucky's back, to whisper right in his ear, "I only scene with subs who trust me. No half measures, no pretending, no _hiding_. And I don't think you're even close, love."

The accusation hits like a lash, and Bucky flinches and pulls away.

Tony's laughter is sharp and knowing, and Bucky spins to find him shaking his head, that damnable sneer back in place. Cheeks flaming, he backs away from his dom's mockery, trying to collect his scattered thoughts.

"It was a nice try, but it's time to go now, sweetheart. Shoo," Tony says in a dismissive tone; he's entirely unaffected by what he just did to Bucky.

Bucky rushes for the exit, humiliated, but he hesitates when the doors open before him. Once he leaves, Tony will lock him out. This has been a failure, but surely there's something he can do?

"Will we see you at dinner?" he asks in a rush. "Please? Steve needs to see that you're—"

Anger flashes across Tony's face for the briefest instant before it's covered with another fake chuckle. " _Steve_ needs? It's thanks to the two of you that I'm nearly 12 hours behind!" Tony barks, heading for his work bench once more.

"You said there was time."

"No, I said there was _a plan_ ," Tony singsongs.

Already unsettled, Bucky’s heart rate quickens at his dom's flippant remark. Time is running out. He makes himself swallow, forces his voice even when he asks, "So, what _is_ the plan?"

"Didn't I tell you to get the hell out?"

"Tony."

"The plan is to make sure you're never a one-armed fugitive again," Tony snaps. "Since I'm sure that's something we both want, get the fuck out and let me finish my work in peace."

Blood pounds in Bucky's ears, beating out the rhythm of the word over and over: _Fugitive_. His doms think he'll run. Do they really think he'd turn his back on them? Steve knows he'd stay, surely. He'd told Steve...hadn't he? He'd held his hand, promised to try. He can't— 

"I'm not running away," he says shakily.

"Right."

"I'm not. _Tony_. I'm not leaving you. No matter what."

"Don't kid yourself. Your friends are going to run. And you're going to go with them."

"No, I—" Bucky gulps, unable to continue. Leave Steve, when they'd just started to build a relationship? Abandon Tony in this condition, still convinced Bucky'd never cared for him? It's unthinkable! 

But hadn't he sworn to never be separated from his friends? Could he really watch them leave him behind? For more than three years, everything he's done has been for them. He'd sacrificed everything to keep them safe. How could he ever part ways with them? His vow isn't so easily broken.

This morning Natasha had looked him in the eyes and told him they were no longer his responsibility. Had she been trying to warn him? Are she and Clint already planning on leaving him? Clues pile up rapidly in his mind: He's already hurt them both. Clint hadn't wanted Bucky with him this morning. Natasha has been distant for days, ever since he bonded with his doms. The wires are out now, and Clint's stable again.

_They don't need him anymore._

"Once things get too hot, you'll be gone," Tony continues.

Bucky's back hits the door frame. He hadn't realized he was backing away. His head is shaking in thoughtless denial. He wants to argue, to tell Tony he's wrong.

He can't.

"So as you can see, I'm a little too busy for family dinners."

Bucky needs out of this room. He needs to run. His hand is trembling, his chest tight. "Your food's getting cold," he blurts, and makes his escape.

The elevator is waiting for him, and he gladly dives inside, pressing himself into the corner and breathing hard. 

As the doors slide shut, Jarvis finally breaks his silence.

_"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barnes, but Sergeant Major Dugan called. He's left you an urgent message."_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chance to make it right

_\- "Barnes. Shit, I didn't want to do this in a voicemail. I just got out of a meeting with—hell, I think half the attendance list is classified, but you should know that the Director of SHIELD was involved. Listen, Barnes, I think you're good, but they're coming for your friends in less than 48 hours. They'll claim it's just until the trial, just insurance, but that's a lie to keep the Starks complacent. Lawyers won't beat this witch hunt; these folks won't rest until they've got someone to crucify. Shit, son, this isn't fair. You just got someplace safe...." -_

Knees gone suddenly weak, Bucky sits heavily on the edge of his bed. He tunes out the rest of the message, two words pounding in his head: 

_Time's up._

Their press conference did too good a job; it made Bucky untouchable. Now the authorities are coming for Clint and Natasha alone, to punish them for his crimes.

Bucky tries to stand only to find that his legs won't hold him. He sinks back down, breaths coming hard and fast as he digs his fingernails into the comforter, feeling as powerless as he ever had under Mentallo. He remembers all the times he'd been too late to stop Clint from provoking the doms, the times he'd been unable to save Natasha from the one-on-one sessions that Mentallo would summon her to—the ones that left her silent and shaking, refusing comfort after. So many abuses he couldn't save his friends from. To see them taken away in shackles once more—every muscle in his body screams in denial.

He has to move, to do _something_. He has to get them away; they're sitting ducks here in the Tower. They have to run.

Dugan wants him to run, too. Why else would he warn _Bucky_ , and not the Starks? 

_Of course_ Bucky should run with his friends. He'd sworn to never abandon them. Hadn't they chosen to stay with him, even when it meant a lifetime of slavery? He can do no less—not after all the times he's failed them.

Even Tony expects him to run. 

God... _Tony_. A high-pitched sound escapes his throat on his next shuddering breath. Bucky leaving now would kill Tony. He would always believe that Bucky'd only ever been using him. And eventually he would convince his husband that Bucky'd never trusted Steve, either. 

The thought of them losing what little faith they still have in him wrenches something agonizing behind his lungs, where the hooks of the bond used to torment him. He _can't_ abandon his doms, can't just take off and forsake them.

_But time's up._

Bucky shakes his head, trying to think. There has to be another way.

His doms still have a plan. Steve said they were prepared for military interference, and Tony obviously knew something like this could happen. Bucky _knows_ he can trust them. After the way they stood by him despite the way he hurt them, he knows they'd never betray his friends.

He'll warn the Starks, and they'll protect Tasha and Clint. They'll barricade the Tower and weather the storm all together. No one can take on Captain America and Iron Man in their own home. They'll be protected.

But the invaders will undoubtedly be law enforcement—maybe even SHIELD. If Agents Hill or Amador demanded surrender at gunpoint, could his doms risk injuring their allies? Hadn't Bucky painted this exact horrifying picture for them when he arrived?

He can see the headlines now, denouncing the Starks as public enemies. He squeezes his eyes shut against the image of the floor-to-ceiling windows blasted in, the dining room table in splinters, the bedroom doors riddled with bullet holes, blood on Tony's tee shirt—

 _No._ Staying would only put his doms in harm's way. He can't do that to them. They had lives before him; they were heroes. He won't see them turned into criminals like him. 

_Time's up._

"No!" Bucky snarls, striking his thigh with his fist over and over, "No, no, no, _no_ —"

When he'd heard those same words a few days ago, he'd gone mad with cowardice, had driven Steve to his knees and stolen Tony's heart. He'd been a reckless fool, untrusting and untrustworthy.

He refuses to hurt his doms again. There must be a way to ensure that everyone he loves remains safe. He swallows past the tide of dread and forcibly slows his breathing. Time's not up _yet_ ; he still has time to stop and think.

He could try to explain it to his doms, convince them to let him and his friends run, tell them it's just temporary, just until the heat dies down. Steve would hold onto hope—maybe Bucky could sneak back to see them before Steve gave up on him entirely. But Tony wouldn't believe him at all; he would continue to spiral into misery, convinced that Bucky'd never loved or wanted him. Picturing Tony in an even worse state makes fear churn queasily in Bucky's stomach...but at least his doms would be _safe_. 

He could get the Starks to let them go today. There's not enough time for Tony to finish his work...but Bucky lost his own arm fair and square; he doesn't deserve a replacement. No, Steve would provide everything he and his friends needed to get away. Money, supplies, even weapons.

Bucky looks down at his good hand, fingers shaking as he forces his fist to open. When he pictures holding a pistol again, his mouth goes dry. He'd thought he'd given that up for good. When he'd dropped his gun for the SHIELD agents, he'd been so sure he would never have to— 

His breath catches. He's a fool.

"Jarvis, replay the message."

Without the fog of panic, Bucky's better able to concentrate on Dugan’s words. The discovery that Director Fury is actively conspiring against them is worrisome—Bucky can't help but recall Dr. Banner's warning last week about Fury's 'tribunals,' about the man's calculating, self-serving nature. So much for SHIELD's assurances of a fair trial. But Dugan had said....

_\- "...Lawyers won't beat this witch hunt; these folks won't rest until they've got someone to crucify...." -_

Some _one_. The authorities just need _one_ target for their anger, someone to point to, someone to punish.

Let it be him.

In that instant, the unbearable tension falls away. The idea feels _right_. Hadn't he attempted it once before, when he dropped to his knees before Amador and the other agents?

In his heart he's always known he deserved punishment for his crimes, that he was far more culpable than his friends. He's struggled with his doms' forgiveness every step of the way, whereas Clint and Natasha have taken to freedom—and to the narrative of helplessness—far better. And with the wires out, without him slowing them down, they can change their appearances and disappear without a trace. Bucky will stay behind and turn himself in, confess and accept the punishment he so richly deserves. With the focus on him as the mastermind of the worst atrocities, the hunt for Clint and Natasha will lose intensity.

And this way his doms won't lose him entirely. Thanks to that press conference, their bond is a matter of public record. That means no death penalty—it's illegal under the International Bill of Human Rights to execute a bonded true-pair dom or sub, as the severed bond would cause irreparable damage to the surviving party—and his doms will have to be granted regular dynamic visits to maintain the bond.

A lifetime of incarceration with guaranteed opportunities to see Steve and Tony is far better than Bucky deserves after killing so many; he'll gladly submit to whatever torture or isolation his jailors choose to inflict as punishment. The knowledge his friends and his doms are safe will be more than enough for him.

Bucky pushes to his feet, no longer paralyzed by indecision. It's settled.

He knows his doms will be hard hit by his choice. On top of the public pity and ridicule, Steve will undoubtedly view it as a failure to protect his sub—Jonathan's death all over again. And Tony...if Bucky's taken away now, with things still up in the air between them, the pain and humiliation will continue to eat Tony alive. 

He has to fix things before the authorities come for him. He has to get his doms ready. They have to know that it's too much love, not too little faith, that's forcing his hand.

He has to show them that he trusts them, no matter what.

\---

He hears their voices before the door opens. The words are indistinct, but he imagines Steve is cajoling Tony to take the last few steps. 

Bucky had asked Jarvis to keep the summons vague, to merely inform Steve that Bucky requested he collect Tony and bring him to their bedroom. He wonders what Steve thinks he'll find, what he told Tony to convince him to come.

Dragging his hand through his damp hair, he takes a steadying breath, tamping down the unease that's grown the longer he's spent on his knees. He tugs on the hem of his shirt one last time, straightens his spine, and waits. The door swings open, and he watches their feet stop at the threshold.

Steve's gasp is audible. "Bucky? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Bucky wishes he could see his dom's expression, but he keeps his neck bent humbly and says nothing, trusting the classic pose of submission to make his intention clear.

"Darling, what are you doing? Please get up," Steve coaxes, stepping forward to crouch beside him.

Bucky shakes his head, quashing the part of himself that would like nothing better than to jump to his feet. He's going to stay on his knees until they put him under, until they believe him.

"Whatever's wrong, we can fix it, I promise. Show us your face, Buck. We need to know you're okay." 

Steve's hand hovers near Bucky's chin but doesn't make contact, and Bucky chokes down a surge of despair. He's freshly shaved, skin still tingling and sensitive; Steve should want to touch him. His dom's continued reluctance to initiate touch is just more proof that Bucky's done everything wrong up to now.

With another deep breath, Bucky lifts his head, briefly meeting Steve's wide, concerned eyes before shifting his gaze to where his other dom is standing in the doorway. Tony's watching him warily, his hair disheveled and his eyes sunken; the sight strengthens Bucky's resolve.

He shifts slightly on the hardwood floor to kneel up and lessen the height disparity. "I'm all yours," he says to both of them, voicing a truth he'd denied for so long. "I understand now that I had no reason to be scared. I should never have tried to drive you away. No matter what happens, I'm yours. Always."

"That's so good to hear, darling. But why are you kneeling? You don't...."

Bucky ignores Steve's bewildered concern to focus on Tony's sneer, his muttered "Bullshit."

"I've thought about what you said—that I'd choose my friends over you," Bucky says loudly, eyes locked on Tony, determined to reach him. "It's not true. I'm _yours_. I'm not going to run away from you again, Tony. Give me this chance to prove it to you."

"You don't have to prove anything. There's no rush—don't do anything you're not ready for," Steve says firmly, leaning in and blocking Bucky's view of Tony. 

Bucky already decided not to tell them about Dugan's warning until after. The impending threat would distract them—and probably make Tony even more suspicious of his sincerity. Instead he meets Steve's gaze and says, "I need to do this, Steve. I hurt you both, and it's tearing me up inside to see the two of you like this. You're trying, I know you are, but Tony's hurting himself worse every minute, and I have to fix things."

"I don't need fixing," Tony insists, approaching to stand over them with his arms crossed. "Certainly not by you."

"You're hurting, Tony. You're working too hard, not eating or sleeping enough. Did you eat the food I brought you?"

Tony's eyes flicker to Steve momentarily. "I told you I didn't want it."

"You're not taking care of yourself. It hurts to see you like this. And knowing it's my fault...." He allows some of his distress to show on his face, risks reaching out his hand in supplication.

Tony jumps back. "All of my objections stand. Nothing between us was real. You never trusted us—you were just using us," he says, pacing to the far side of the enormous bed.

Bucky springs to his feet without conscious thought, compelled to follow him. "I _do_ trust you. I do. I was confused, but I get it now. Let me do this for you. I'll show you it's real."

Tony spins on him angrily. "With more playacting? More mind games? I don't think so."

"All real, I promise. Try me and see," Bucky says, praying he's not overstating his ability to follow through. Tony's jaw clenches, and Bucky swallows and adds, "Do you want me to beg? Because I'll beg."

"Wait. Stop. This isn't a good idea," Steve protests, stepping between them and trying to herd Bucky away through sheer proximity. When Bucky doesn't step back, Steve balks before their chests brush. 

Bucky chuckles bitterly at the display, but it comes out more like a sob, and he quickly bites his tongue.

"Buck?" Steve asks softly.

He shakes his head and silently takes hold of his dom's left hand, presses Steve's palm to his chest, over the Stark Industries logo. 

"I don't understand," Steve says unsteadily, staring at where his fingers are splayed across Bucky's heart. His hand is warm but perfectly still, like he's afraid to move it.

"You never touch me, not unless I ask for it," Bucky says, embarrassed by how small his voice sounds. Steve's fingers twitch at the accusation, but Bucky keeps his dom's hand pinned beneath his own palm. "I'm yours, too. Do you understand? I'm yours. You have me."

Steve gulps, clearly hesitant to trust Bucky's words.

"I need to do this for all of us, Steve. I need to make you believe me, because this distance between us _hurts_. It's hurting us both."

Something breaks behind Steve's eyes, his face crumpling in dismay even as he cups Bucky's nape with his free hand. "God, darling, I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

Bucky leans back into Steve's hold and pets his dom's broad chest reassuringly. Steve's touch is so welcome, so possessive—it warms him from the inside. Bucky's tempted to sink back down to the floor, here at his dom’s feet. But he locks his knees and takes a breath, wishing he didn't have to use this moment with Steve for something more.

"You'll help me, won't you?"

Steve looks at him blankly, and Bucky nods reassuringly.

"I need you with me for this. I need your hands on me, holding me still."

Steve recoils at the request, but Bucky seizes his wrist before he can put real distance between them. "You don't like to be kept still. You warned me not to."

Bucky bites back an explanation. He'd learned at Ebersol's hands that the hardest part was having to hold _himself_ still, that restraints made it more bearable by allowing him to struggle. He needs to go deep for Tony; Steve's strong grip could make the difference.

"I don't ever want to leave you, and I need to know you won't let me go," he says instead. He can see his dom start to melt at the declaration, but there's still a shadow of doubt in his eyes. Recalling Steve's promise to give however much he needed, Bucky adds, "You're my dominant, Steve. Hold me and support me. I need you to do this for me."

Steve studies Bucky's face intently, then drops his gaze to Bucky's hand around his wrist. His own hand flexes once, twice. With a shaky breath, he nods. "Alright. Alright, I'll do it. But we stop the moment any of us says. If anything goes wrong, we stop."

Bucky pushes aside the impulse to step in close, to put his arm around Steve and reassure him; Tony has moved dangerously close to the door.

"Tony," he says, disengaging from Steve.

"Oh good. It's my turn now," Tony says in a breezy tone, but he takes a step back as Bucky approaches him.

"I love the work you've done on my new arm," he says, keeping his voice soft. "You're an amazing engineer."

Confusion flashes across Tony's face, and Bucky feels a flicker of hope at having managed to surprise his dom. He presses his point before Tony can decide how to react.

"But I'd rather have you than a left arm. I miss you. I know I drove you away, but if you'll just give me a chance—"

"I'd be a fool to trust you again."

Bucky doesn't let himself react to the knee-jerk refusal. "You didn't trust me in the first place; you trusted the fairy tale." He says it gently, but Tony still flinches. "Maybe the true-pair bond isn't a guarantee of a perfect relationship after all—at least not immediately. Even you and Steve fought at first, right?"

The tense line of Tony's mouth softens just a bit as he glances past Bucky to where Steve is doubtlessly watching them.

"And me, I'm pretty messed up. I've hurt everyone—even Clint and Tasha, and you know I'd die for them, but I screwed them up, too. I hurt you worst of all, and I don't know how to make this better. I just know we can be more than we are right now."

"And you think submitting for me will fix things?" Tony asks, and Bucky can hear him wavering behind his bluster.

"You're convinced I don't trust you. Words aren't going to change your mind. So I'm begging for this chance to prove it to you. Put me on my knees. Take me down where I can't think. Turn me inside out; you'll see that I'm sincere." 

Bucky holds his breath. Surrendering that much of himself is still a frightening prospect; since learning to protect himself, he's only been that deep once—on the Quinjet, when he'd been in the middle of a panic attack. He's not even sure he knows how to go there willingly, but he has to try. If Tony will just give him the chance.

After a long minute some of the tension fades from Tony's face. Bucky'd expected to feel victorious in this moment, but instead his heart leaps painfully as Tony slowly steps forward to close the distance between them.

Bucky holds himself perfectly still as Tony reaches out to tentatively stroke his cheek. The touch of his calloused fingers is electric; it's all Bucky can do not to shut his eyes and lean into the contact. He keeps his focus on Tony's expression, on the struggle of emotions that plays across his face.

Finally Tony takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders, and slides his hand down to loosely curl around the side of Bucky's neck. "Last chance to back out, sweetheart," he says softly, searching Bucky's face intently.

"I trust you. I want to submit to you. Give me an order, Tony. Please."

"Keep your eyes on me," Tony says, thumb stroking lightly at the hinge of Bucky's jaw. Then his voice goes deep and smooth, " _On your knees for me, pretty thing_."

Bucky's legs fold automatically. He barely registers the jolt of his knees hitting the hard floor, his head already starting to swim under Tony's spell.

Tony's pupils dilate as his thumb continues its caress. "You were very sweet to promise Steve he could hold you. Nothing would make him happier— _if_ you actually wanted it. _You do want to be good for Steve, don't you?_ "

The push behind Tony's words makes Bucky's eyelids heavy, and he nods eagerly, suddenly aware of every inch of skin that's not being touched.

With his eyes still locked on Tony, Bucky hears rather than sees Steve approach, feels him move to kneel behind him, strong thighs bracketing Bucky's hips. He's distantly aware that being confined like this would usually alarm him, but he can't seem to care. He's in the comfortable zone now, where everything's diffuse and candy-coated, but he's still tracking his surroundings.

"Tell me to stop if this isn't okay," Steve murmurs, lips brushing Bucky's ear, stubble scraping the sensitive skin of his jaw, and Bucky's high on his body heat, his enveloping presence—he can't imagine anything not being okay. Steve takes hold of Bucky's dead shoulder in one hand and his right wrist in the other. He guides Bucky's good arm behind his back and holds it firmly in place.

It's like a key gliding into a lock, the song of the bond rising as space opens below him. Bucky sinks back into Steve's hold, relaxing into the slow slide.

"Don't forget me so soon," Tony chides.

Bucky blinks his eyes open and peers hazily up at Tony. There's a smile playing at the corners of his dom's lips, but his eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, and Bucky startles, ashamed to realize he'd already forgotten his purpose. He's doing this wrong—he has to prove himself to Tony, not Steve.

He must betray his confusion somehow, because Tony's hand withdraws from his throat, and his dom says, " _I didn't give you permission to think._ " 

Bucky's head drops heavily, but he mentally pushes back against the current, holding fast to his train of thought; he can't afford to blank out entirely—not until he's sure he's doing this right. Still, it feels wrong to defy Tony's order, and the effort sets a fine tremor going through his limbs and leaves his mind snarled like a traffic jam, all competing urges and indecision. He breathes harshly through his nose and hangs limp in Steve's grip while he tries to sort out what he's doing wrong.

He needs directions, something to set him on the right track, to show him how to get where he needs to be.

Steve murmurs, "Shh, it's alright, darling. You can let go, it's okay." His gentle tone drags a pained noise from Bucky's throat.

"Check in, tiger," Tony says, and Bucky hates that he's responsible for the thread of worry in his voice. He's supposed to be reassuring his dom.

Not daring to look up, Bucky helplessly whispers, "Please." _Give me an order, tell me what I can do to fix this._

"I need to see your eyes, sweetheart." Tony's hand is back at his jaw, nudging his face up. 

He only resists for a second, but it's enough to make Tony hiss and withdraw his touch. Thoughts clamoring with confused remorse, Bucky snaps his head up to meet Tony's narrowed gaze.

"You hide your face when you're faking it," Tony says evenly, his arms crossed. "It's your tell. I almost can't believe I didn't spot it before now—you've used it on us plenty."

Bucky moans and drops his head, wishing he could deny the accusation but knowing how guilty he is, how much he's failed his doms. He aches for Tony's hand on him again, but he doesn't deserve to ask for it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" 

"I told you to _show me your eyes_ ," Tony reminds him sharply, grabbing Bucky's chin and forcing his face back up.

Behind him, Steve inhales harshly and tightens his grip.

Everything blurs sideways for a moment. His doms' fingers are perfect digging into his wrist and chin, matching spots of pain that make his heart stutter, make everything else go soft and hazy at the edges. 

His eyes flutter closed for a second before he remembers that he's not supposed to hide from his dom. How could he have forgotten so soon? Has Tony noticed? He blinks away the disorientation until he can make his eyes focus.

Tony's studying him with a puzzled expression. "There you go again. What's it going to take to keep him down?" he asks, looking over Bucky's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Bucky babbles nonsensically, tormented by the disappointed look on Tony's face.

" _Quiet!_ " Tony snaps. "I'm trying to think."

Bucky bites his tongue with a whine. He gazes up at Tony in wide-eyed supplication, but he can see in the hard set of his dom's jaw the moment he reaches the inevitable conclusion.

"You just plain don't trust me, do you?" 

"I do, I do," Bucky gasps, even as horror kicks low in his belly—it shouldn't be so easy to override Tony's order not to speak. He's failing. "I can be good for you, I promise. Just...just tell me what to do. I'll do it!" 

There's a distinctly unfriendly set to Tony's mouth. "More mind games," he decides. "What's the point of all this?" he gestures between the three of them and around, at the empty, oversized bed. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing, I swear. You have to believe me, Tony!"

Tony's expression turns steely. " _Do you really think you deserve to use that name?_ "

There's that odd blurring again, a terrifying lurch like hanging suspended over a void. "Sir," Bucky breathes. He scrambles for a handhold: his mission. "Sir, please, I just want to make you happy." 

"What if I said you can't make me happy?" Tony taunts, but his fingers slide into Bucky's hair, nails scraping his scalp, and Bucky's head is spinning. 

Bucky takes in Tony's tired face, the pallor of his skin, the faint glow of the arc reactor, and something cracks deep inside, filling up his lungs, leaving him frantic and pleading, "I have to! You're not okay. Sir, I have to, you have to let me." 

Tony's fingers tighten in his hair, the flash of pain drowning out whatever it is that Steve's saying behind him. 

"If I'm hurt, it's your fault," Tony says, his voice raw with anger.

"It's my fault," he agrees, nodding hard enough to pull against Tony's hand and make his own eyes water. He deserves it. "Let me make it right," he begs.

"How could you _possibly_ make it right?"

Bucky sobs, feeling powerless. Dugan was right; he can't go down properly. What chance does he have of convincing Tony?

"I said stop. Tony, this isn't working."

"Punish me!" Bucky blurts, desperate and sincere. "I deserve it. I'll let you. Please, sir!" It won't be the first time he's traded his body. If it'll help Tony, it'll be worth it.

"Red," Steve says loudly.

"No!" Bucky exclaims, but both of his doms are already releasing him, leaving him cold and exposed. The room seems suddenly very bright.

"Come on, Buck. It's okay. How are you doing, baby?" Steve's saying softly, large hands flexing high on his shoulders.

Bucky tries to shrug him off, feeling trapped. "We can't stop!"

Steve pulls him to his feet. "You were in the wrong headspace for a scene—both of you. I could feel you fighting yourself, Bucky. You weren't ready for it." 

Tony looks dazed, scrubbing his palm against his shirt and staring at his husband as though lost. Seeing him in this state makes it hard to breathe; Bucky's only done more damage.

"We have to keep trying," he gasps, stepping toward him. Tony's eyes snap into focus, and his dom backs away from him. "No, please! It's our only chance!"

"Of course it's not. Why would you think that?" Steve asks.

Bucky belatedly realizes what he nearly let slip. "Tony thinks I'm going to run when they come for us," he offers as a distraction.

Tony raises his chin.

"But I'm not going to. When they come," he says, keeping the timeline vague, "I'll send Nat and Clint away. You'll help me with that, I know you will." He glances between his two doms. Tony scowls and turns his back, but Steve nods, his eyes intent, hanging on Bucky's next words. "But I'm not going with them."

"So you've said," Tony sneers over his shoulder.

Bucky closes his eyes and says, "I'm going to turn myself in." He hears Steve gasp his name, but he continues, "I know you plan to fight them, but I won't let you risk your lives for me. I'm going to let them take me."

"No! What are you thinking!"

"You'll still be able to see me. You'll be able to visit me a few times a year. They have to allow you at least that." This way his doms won't make themselves criminals. They'll still have their lives, their freedom, even each other. It's the right thing to do.

"We won't see you imprisoned for something that wasn't your fault," Steve insists, his hand firm on Bucky's shoulder again. "We won't allow it."

"You have to let me do this! You can't fight them when they come! Your reputations—and what if one of you got hurt? Steve, I couldn't live with that."

Tony huffs and drags his hands down his face. "Oh, Jesus Christ."

"Bucky, that's not—that's not the plan. We're not fighting anyone," Steve says, pulling him around to face him. His expression is grave when he says, "We're all going to run."

Bucky's breath catches in his throat. It takes him a disbelieving moment to choke out, "What?"

"T'Challa has offered us asylum. We figured you'd want to hit the road with your friends," Steve says with a self-effacing shrug that leaves Bucky speechless. "You'll need to see us from time to time, just for the bond; you'll be able to reach us more safely in Wakanda."

"Even if I finish your arm in time, you're going to have to come to me for repairs," Tony says stiffly. He's turned back to them but is avoiding eye contact, clearly embarrassed by the emotional vulnerability their planned sacrifice implies.

"No...." Bucky whispers, appalled. He'd never dreamed they had something like this in mind. It's too much, it's—

Steve ducks his head and adds, looking up through his lashes, "But if you want to...you're all more than welcome to stay with us there." The tremulous hopefulness of Steve's offer makes Bucky's chest ache. Does he really think Bucky cares so little for him?

His doms are on the verge of throwing away their lives, becoming wanted fugitives, _for him_. A terrorist. A man who's spent the last three years destroying everything he touched. His heart lurches violently in his chest.

"No, you can't—"

"It's already done. We've transferred all of our domestic holdings to Pepper; the papers were signed days ago." 

"You can't do this for me. I won't let you," Bucky exclaims, fisting his hand in Steve's shirt.

"Our minds are made up, Buck."

"You're Avengers!" he yells desperately. He backs away so he can see them both at once. "You're _good men_ , not criminals!"

Steve shakes his head. "What kind of men would we be if we let an innocent shoulder the blame?" He ignores Bucky's angry denial and adds, "You were a victim, Bucky. I know you struggle with the things you were forced to do, but none of it was your fault." 

_Victim._

The word is laughable, but Bucky can't do more than cringe away from Steve's misguided faith. He turns instead to Tony, who knows better than to trust him. "Tony, you know it's not like that. It's not that easy—" 

"We're your doms," Tony says resolutely, meeting his eyes with a pained expression. "It's our duty to take care of you."

" _No!_ " Bucky shouts again, pulling at his own hair. "I won't let you!" 

"It's not your decision," Steve declares, words carrying the ring of finality.

Bucky reels backward, caught in a feeling of freefall. Everything is out of his control. 

This was all useless. It wouldn't have mattered if his attempt here had worked—they'd have gone ahead with their foolhardy plan either way. He has no say, no way to influence this; they've convinced themselves that he's worth dismantling their entire lives!

He curses himself for every step he took to win them over. He couldn't hate himself more than he does in this moment. He's done so many terrible things, the last few years a waking nightmare of unending horrors, and now he's destroyed the best men he knows.

"Hey. Buck. Are you okay?"

He can't let them go through with it. There must be something he can do, some way to convince them he's not worth this.

The obviousness of the answer sets him laughing—ugly, hoarse spasms that he can't seem to stop. Steve reaches for him, his face a mask of concern, but Bucky retreats, wrapping his arm around himself defensively like he hasn't with them in days. "You..." he gasps between sobbing laughter. "You think I'm...innocent!"

Even Tony looks alarmed by his strange behavior. "Sweetheart, Christ, what's going on?"

And it is funny, a cosmic joke on Bucky's doms. "I only told the interrogators what you wanted me to say.... You never listened when I told you the truth."

Steve must move while his eyes are squeezed shut, because suddenly Bucky's face is being cupped in his dom's trembling hands, his dom's wide eyes staring into his.

"Stop, darling. Whatever it is, we can work through this, I promise."

The words nearly set Bucky off again, but he clamps down on the bubbling hysteria and shoves Steve away. "Don’t!"

"What have you been trying to tell us?" Tony asks in a steady voice, clearly bracing himself. "And what have you left out?" 

Part of him is relieved that at least Tony's listening now, but the rest of him goes cold as his mirth evaporates. He'd wanted it to end differently, to embrace the prison sentence he so deserves with affection between them, so their visits could be happy occasions. 

But it's this or the Starks becoming fugitives for the rest of their lives. To save them from themselves, he'll raze the pedestal they've put him on and utterly eradicate their feelings for him.

And if he's finally going to tell this truth, then by god, he'll make it count. He'll do it in such a way that they can never forget it. He'll give Director Fury all the evidence he needs for an easy conviction.

"I'll tell you," he says as steadily as he can manage. "But I want it on the record. Tell Jarvis to turn on the cameras downstairs." 

Without waiting for their response, Bucky turns and walks out of their bedroom on his final trip to the interrogation room.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty dark for our protagonists, so please re-familiarize yourself with the tags.
> 
> Russian translation by [bmouse](http://bmouse.tumblr.com/)

**June 8, three years ago**

_It's dim in the backseat, lit only by the moon. From the mounting tension in Clint's shoulders as the sedan climbs into the eastern Alps, he must know where they are, even dozing with his head in Natasha's lap; three years have ingrained the approach to Mentallo's secret base into him._

_Bucky has no intention of achieving such unsettling familiarity. He's seen to that today._

_Clint had taken a long time to relax on the drive out of Bratislava, still racked with panic, shivering off and on for the first hundred kilometers. He'd ignored Bucky's attempts to reassure him, keeping his face pressed to Natasha's knee, his fingers twisting in the hem of her skirt while she carded her fingers through his hair in a steady rhythm. Her caress had continued long after Clint had fallen asleep._

_Natasha hasn't said a word about Bucky's decision to spare the official, but her other hand is still heavy on the back of his neck, just above HYDRA's collar. Her vigil over both of them hasn't let up for a moment; every time Bucky tries to raise his head, her hard fingers clamp down until he sighs and lets her have her way._

_After hours bent at a ridiculous angle, his temple awkwardly pressed to her bony shoulder, Bucky's impatient to escape the suffocating air of desperation in the car. However Mentallo plans to punish him for his defiance, Bucky's more than ready to get it over with._

_The vehicle makes another turn, and the incline increases sharply. Clint wakes with a whispered curse, his breathing becoming fast and shallow, and one of his hands stretches out to clutch the fabric of Bucky's trousers._

_"It's going to be fine, Clint," Bucky murmurs, patting his friend's hand. In the past four months, he's grown closer to Mentallo's youngest prisoner than he would have expected, drawn to his irreverent humor in the midst of their terrible circumstances. But Bucky's never seen him so scared; it stirs the protective instincts he's already developed for Clint. "I'll handle it, make sure he knows it was my call—."_

_Natasha's grip tightens abruptly._

_"You made a choice today," she informs him, voice low and intense. Eye contact is impossible in the position that she's forcing him to maintain, and he's left wondering what expression she's wearing. Probably nothing that'd tell him anything—he still hasn't figured out how to read her poker face._

_"I did," Bucky agrees mildly._

_"Whatever comes next—just remember, it was your choice."_

_Bucky waits for her to make a new point, but when she doesn't add anything, he says, "I know."_

_She huffs, "You have no idea."_

_"I'm not his puppet, Natasha. And I'll never kill for him," Bucky tells her again, words he's repeated for the past four months. "It's time he realized that."_

_Her clever fingers crook and snag on the wires that Bucky's still not used to, and he curses and shivers all over._

_"_ Akh lapushka, bednyy durak, vsegda khochesh' byt' geroyem _," she sighs bitterly, and Clint hisses and shifts his grip on Bucky's leg._

_Unfamiliar with the language, Bucky decides not to respond to what he assumes is an insult. Natasha was a contract killer, he reminds himself; she wouldn't understand why he refused to cross that line today._

_He finally escapes their iron grips when the car pulls into the hanger. Climbing out while Natasha fusses with a reluctant Clint, Bucky hurries to stretch out his cramped limbs and the perennial ache in his mangled shoulder, anxious to face whatever's coming._

_A stony-faced guard intercepts him on his way to the trunk to collect their gear._

_"Leave it! Mentallo wants to see you," the man barks, one hand on his sidearm._

_Bucky squares his shoulders and precedes the man without a backward glance. As they move down the hallway, he allows himself a moment of relief that Mentallo hadn't summoned his fellow prisoners, that the psychic won't pretend to blame them for Bucky's defiance this time._

_This is between him and the HYDRA commander._

_The knowledge sets a reckless energy crackling under his skin, increasing exponentially with every step, more than a hundred days of stopped-up anger fit to burst. There'll be hell to pay for his actions today; he's looking forward to it._

_In the workshop, Mentallo has swiveled his chair from his desk and is watching silent news broadcasts on the wall of monitors, his back to the door. He doesn't react to their entrance, and the guard knows better than to disturb him._

_But Bucky's done waiting, and he clears his throat pointedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for Mentallo to acknowledge him._

_His would-be master turns in his chair and studies him. "Kneel," he says, a simple order with no dynamic or telepathic compulsion to obey._

_Bucky crosses his arms, flesh on top of metal, and smirks._

_The guard steps up behind Bucky, likely planning to force him to his knees, but Mentallo gestures for the man to stand down._

_Mentallo eyes Bucky's stubborn stance, his pinched face impassive. "I ordered you to kill the Slovak Minister of Health. Did you do so?"_

_"Nope," he says, popping the_ p _. If Mentallo had expected him to follow that order, then he'd badly misread Bucky._

_Bucky's not broken—not by HYDRA, and not by anything that came before. He's stronger than Clint and Natasha; he'll never break and willingly commit violence for his captor. The psychic can't control him like that._

_"Was there some problem that prevented you? Or did you willfully disobey orders?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_For just a moment the corner of Mentallo's mouth quirks in what looks like the beginning of a smile before settling into a deeper scowl than usual._

_"I think it's time we came to an understanding. You," he says, turning to the guard. "Where's my little soldier right now?"_

_"No!" Bucky blurts, heart rate spiking. This wasn't supposed to happen—Bucky'd promised Clint he had things under control._

_"He should be finishing up at the armory and heading back to their cell about now," the guard says._

_"Clint had nothing to do with this!"_

_But Mentallo ignores Bucky. "Have him locked in. I don't care where Natasha goes, as long as she's not in there with him."_

_Clint had been convinced something terrible was coming. That same panic takes root in Bucky's body now, making his limbs weak with dread._

_Whatever Mentallo's planning, Bucky has to get ahead of it somehow, bring the man's focus back on himself._

_"It was my decision to throw the mission! It wasn't his fault!" When Mentallo doesn't react, Bucky tries again, "It was_ my _choice!"_

_"How many men are here tonight?"_

_Bucky sucks in a sharp breath, his stomach lurching like he's balanced on a stool that's just lost a leg._

_There's amusement in the guard's voice when he answers, "I'd guess about 45."_

_Mentallo finally looks back at Bucky. "It sounds like Clint's going to have a very long night servicing the whole base."_

_He chokes, momentarily forgetting how to breathe as the enormity of the threat sinks in._ No. Not Clint. _Could he even survive that? Surely Mentallo wouldn't go so far— He hears again Clint's terrified voice, feels his friend's sturdy body shaking in his arms as Bucky led him down the dark stairwell:_ What did you do, Buck? __

_"Please, sir," Bucky pleads, dropping to his knees willingly before his captor._

_He'd prided himself on resisting these past months, on never kneeling unless forced by the guards or by a compulsion. But he would trade every prideful second if he could spare Clint this._

_"I see you've finally learned your place," Mentallo says, rising to stand over him with a triumphant sneer._

_Bucky swallows bile and an instinctive denial. He grovels lower still and drags out the words, "Please, Master! He didn't do anything wrong. I was at fault. Please,_ please _punish me instead."_

_Silence stretches unbearably, and Bucky doesn't dare raise his forehead from the filthy floor. The scent of dusty linoleum fills his nostrils, dirt stirred up with every panting breath as he waits._

_After what seems like a lifetime, Mentallo snaps his fingers._

_Bucky risks glancing up just enough to see Mentallo's hand gesturing impatiently, and he kneels the rest of the way up, keeping his neck bowed submissively._

_"Sir?" he whispers, trying not to trust the surge of hope; Mentallo is never kind._

_Cool fingers slide under Bucky's chin, raising his face._

_"You made the wrong choice today, Bucky. But I can be merciful. In fact," Mentallo tilts his head, smiling cruelly, "I'm going to give you a chance to make the right choice."_

\---

The elevator doors open onto SHIELD's floor of Stark Tower, the white-walled hall eerily empty without the ever-present agents. Bucky pushes into the interrogation room ahead of his doms, and the lights come on automatically. The chairs are arranged as he'd last seen them: three facing the mirror, and one on the interrogator's side.

Bucky wordlessly shoves a second chair around to the far side of the table, and Tony and Steve silently follow his cue, sinking into the designated seats with drawn expressions.

His body is a live wire, too charged with adrenaline to be still. He needs to pace, to _move_ , to shout his crimes to the unresponsive walls.

He doesn't deserve such freedom.

Instead Bucky forces himself into his familiar chair at the table. He presses his trembling hand flat on the tabletop and stares at it, bracing himself for what he has to do. 

"Jarvis, are the cameras recording?" he asks without raising his head. He grimaces when the AI answers in the affirmative.

Steve leans forward. "You don't have to—" 

Bucky cuts Steve off with a shake of his head. He takes a deep breath and finally looks up, avoiding his doms' gazes to instead meet his own eyes in the mirror behind them.

"I told Agent Pandit about the first man I killed for HYDRA, Minister Matej Jurzyca of Slovakia."

"We heard it," Tony says. In Bucky's peripheral vision, he's leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

Despite Tony's agreement, Bucky's sure they didn't hear _everything_ he'd admitted that morning. They'd have treated him differently if they had—certainly not bonded with him immediately after. The call that interrupted his confession must have distracted them.

Bucky starts with one of the key facts he'd been anxious to hide that day. "Despite the collar and psychic compulsions, I actually had a lot of personal freedom. I was rebellious those first few months. I couldn't do anything to hurt Mentallo, but I fought back all the time.

"I was convinced I could escape. I even tried to convince Nat and Clint to resist with me—I promised to get them out—but they ignored me. They knew better. I thought they were weak," he admits ruefully. "I was a fool."

His doms don't interrupt his self-recriminations, and he reminds himself that he doesn't want their comfort.

"Eventually Mentallo began sending me on jobs with them. My role started small, nothing I couldn't justify to myself: I drove the getaway vehicle, carried their weapons, watched their backs. I could tell he was trying to ease me into serving HYDRA. I went along with the missions at first to protect them, but deep down I knew—I _thought_ I was a good man, that he could never make me do anything truly evil."

"He forced you, Buck," Steve says quietly, like he thinks Bucky just needs reminding of some biological helplessness.

Bucky watches his own mouth spasm in an aborted sneer. He actually misses Pandit's judgmental glare; at least the interrogator hadn't underestimated him because of his dynamic. "When he sent me to kill Jurzyca, I wouldn't do it. I had the man in my sights, but I chose not to take the shot. I was under orders, but no one was there to _make_ me pull the trigger. Do you understand? It had to be my decision to do it."

Tony sits up a little straighter. "Wait—"

"You refused an order," Steve summarizes, his brow creased in confusion.

"That's right. I disobeyed an order Mentallo'd given me," Bucky says, perversely glad that they're finally listening to him. "Clint knew there'd be hell to pay, but I ignored him. I thought I could control what came next." He spares a derisive snort for his last moments of naiveté. "Back at base, Mentallo was ready to punish me, alright. But not just me."

"Your friends," Tony guesses. His palm is rubbing back and forth over the arc reactor, and, for the space of a few heartbeats, his eyes go somewhere far away.

"He gave me a choice." Bucky can feel his throat going tight and painful, as though his body is trying to block the words.

"Bucky," Steve says gently, "you can't blame yourself for anything he did."

The blind certainty in Steve's voice strangles a harsh, broken sound from Bucky's throat. The certainty of it, the self-righteousness both Steve and Tony have displayed—they know _nothing_ of how low Bucky had sunk.

They still don't understand that it was never what Mentallo did.

It was what Bucky had done.

"I raped Clint."

It's the first time he's ever spoken the words.

He's braced for his doms' revulsion, and sure enough, Tony inhales sharply—a small, hurt sound—and looks up at the ceiling, lips moving in some silent prayer.

But Steve— _damn_ him—Steve's eyes are soft and pained.

"Bucky, no," he says softly. "Whatever you think happened, if it was anything like what he made Clint do to that boy, then it wasn't you doing it. It wasn't your fault."

"I _raped_ him!" Bucky shouts, slamming his hand on the table in a surge of fury. " _I_ did it; there was no mind control. There wasn't even an _order!_ I found him in our room and I hit him hard before he suspected anything was wrong. I held him down, and I raped him."

It may have been Mentallo's idea, but the psychic didn't palm Bucky's dick hard as he rushed to their bedroom, half-sick with terror but frantic to get the deed done. Mentallo didn't swing Bucky's metal fist at Clint's head to stun him, didn't keep Bucky erect while his friend tried to fight Bucky off his back.

That was Bucky. All of it.

"I don't believe you," Steve says. "You wouldn't do anything to hurt him."

Tony is shaking his head, his eyes straying to the door. "I've seen you two together; he's clearly not afraid of you."

Bucky's stomach heaves at the memory of the moment that Clint had finally guessed what was happening and stopped struggling, had gone limp and sorrowful beneath him, reaching back to touch Bucky's head—

_No!_

"Dammit, you're not listening!" He knocks over his chair with a clatter as he pushes to his feet, consumed by a pounding need to get away, to lash out. "I did it! I _chose_ to do it. Just like I chose to kill the minister the next day. I _always_ had a choice."

The words land heavily in the small room, rendering his dominants silent.

The alternative that Mentallo offered him three years ago had initially left Bucky in stunned disbelief. The idea was unthinkable, but he'd been unable to keep from picturing the hungry eyes of the HYDRA soldiers, who so rarely had access to them. Mentallo had taken his silence for assent and laid out ground rules: no speaking; no trying to cheat by warning Clint. He would have to uphold the spirit and the letter of his choice.

He'd been a different man after that night, forever changed by the knowledge that he was capable of something so vile. Clint, who had clung to him and trusted him, whom he had sworn to free—to have violated his trust in such a way.... And Natasha, who'd put Bucky back together with tender hands after it was done....

He'd known then that he would do anything rather than hurt either of them again. From that day forward he did what Mentallo wanted, followed every order without question. He killed hundreds of people without a word of protest, too much a coward to face the consequences.

"Since we met, you've been trying to excuse what I did. You _can't_. There's no defense for any of it. Mentallo wasn't in our cell making me hurt Clint. No one stood behind me on missions and made me pull the trigger or use a detonator. No collar can account for what I did. Not psychic powers either. Everything I did for HYDRA was a choice I made myself."

"Oh, darling. You really do blame yourself for all of it, don't you?" Steve says softly.

For just an instant, Bucky's eyes go hot, the sympathetic throb in his dom's voice threatening to undo his resolve. It would feel so good to throw himself on their mercy, to let them try to persuade him that the guilt is all in his head.

But he blinks the tears back, focusing his gaze on their name emblazoned across his chest in the mirror. They're planning to destroy their own lives for him. For _him_. He can't allow it.

He raises his chin. "It's the truth, Steve."

Steve shakes his head and says firmly, "It wasn't a choice if your friends' safety was at stake. He threatened them, didn't he?"

"Stop looking for excuses! It doesn't matter why. You carried the bodies—I know you remember the blood. I triggered the Claymores! I slaughtered them! How dare you cast me as the _victim?_ Tony, you remember when we met. I'd shot you in the back. You called me a mur—"

The door slams open, and Clint and Natasha barrel into the small room, weapons in hand.

Steve starts at the invasion, rising half from his chair before stopping himself, but Tony looks more relieved than surprised—almost as though he'd been expecting them.

"The fuck is going on?" Clint demands breathlessly. "What are you doing here?"

Natasha's face is pale. "This isn't what I meant, _lapushka_."

"You shouldn't be here for this," Bucky says stiffly.

Clint's keen eyes flick between Bucky's frozen stance, his doms' worn expressions, and the massive two-way mirror. He groans, holstering his pistol in his waistband.

"Oh, you sonofabitch, what did you tell them?" Clint breathes, crossing the few meters between them to grab Bucky by his shirt. 

Bucky tries to push him away, sickened by the thought of Clint touching him right now, after what he's just confessed—but Clint shoves him back into the wall, his hands pinning Bucky heavily at the shoulders as he presses close. 

"I told you it wasn't your fault, remember?"

Bucky turns his face away, everything in him rejecting his friend's forgiveness. He knows what he's guilty of. He helplessly notes that his doms are watching the spectacle, but he averts his gaze before he can decipher their expressions.

"No, come on," Clint pleads, fisting his hand in Bucky's hair and pressing their temples together. "Don't do this, Buck. Don't you fucking do this again."

"I did it," he insists as evenly as he can manage. Clint's inexplicable devotion weighs on him, setting something clawing up Bucky's esophagus, some unnamed horror straining to burst free. "I did everything they say I did, and I did it of my own free will."

Natasha makes a harsh sound, but Bucky closes his eyes as he fights for self-control; he can't afford to meet her gaze.

"No, no, you were strong," Clint moans, shaking his head and jostling Bucky. Their chests are pressed tightly together, unbearably intimate. "You were so strong, you—"

"I broke!" Bucky finally yells. He drives shaking fingers into the nerve cluster in Clint's shoulder and shoves free while his friend recoils in pain. 

He slides away along the wall, only stopping when he reaches the corner, and sweeps his gaze over all four of them, snarling, "Listen to me! I wasn't strong. I _broke_. I obeyed every order he gave me. And it wasn't the _collar_. It wasn't _telepathy_. It was _me_. I surrendered.

"And for what? A pair of killers too broken to tell right from wrong," he says, hating himself for finally voicing the disloyal thought. He can't bear to look at his friends, but neither of them flinch in his peripheral vision. Heart breaking all over again, he turns to Steve and Tony and continues, "I would have done _anything_ rather than hurt them again. It didn't matter how awful, how many lives I had to take. I was HYDRA's man. Mentallo broke me."

His breathing is loud in the ensuing silence, his pulse thundering in his ears. There's no coming back from this now; they have to see how culpable he is, the inexorable string of choices made that puts him beyond the reach of forgiveness. 

He closes his eyes and braces for their repudiation.

"Mentallo didn't break you, James," Natasha says quietly. " _I_ did."

Bucky's eyes fly open, and he stares at her in confusion. 

She's standing by the door, her hands in fists and her mouth a tight line—just like she'd been that night, watching from the open doorway as he assaulted Clint. But now her cheeks are tracked with tears, and her chin is raised bravely.

"You never had free will. You were being manipulated—you just couldn't see it."

"I know what I did," Bucky insists. He doesn't need her twisting the truth to get him out of this. 

With a deep breath, she steps further into the room. "The problem was that you always had to be in control. You've never thought like a submissive; the idea of surrender is anathema to you."

Bucky flinches from her too-perceptive words. He's still struggling to come to terms with his inability to submit; he doesn't need her rubbing his face in it. He looks around the room and sees that everyone else is watching Natasha as she slowly advances on him.

"From the first time we met, I could tell exactly how hard you'd resist...and how to undermine that resistance. Mentallo tried to break you his way at first, but for all of his powers he was terrible at reading people. What he did have was me...and enough power to make me talk." 

Before Bucky can ask her what she means by that ominous statement, she takes another step closer. He feels like prey being stalked by a predator.

"The trick was to allow you the _illusion_ of control. As long as you thought you were acting of your own volition, he could manipulate you into doing what he wanted. That's why he gave you so many choices—because when you thought you were in control, you could be pointed in any direction he wanted."

Bucky shakes his head, wrenching his gaze free of hers with some effort. "It wasn't like that. You know it wasn't like that."

"You claimed you made a choice that day, Bucky," Tony says unexpectedly, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So why _did_ you do it? What was the alternative?"

The ground is slipping under Bucky's feet, the whole conversation taking a turn he hadn't anticipated, undoing all his efforts. "It doesn't matter what the alternative was. What matters is that I did it, I chose it. There's no excuse."

"Mentallo threatened to do something much worse to Clint. Something he might not survive," Natasha says in her terrifyingly even voice. 

Bucky shrinks back, wide eyes darting between her and Clint. He'd never told either of them about Mentallo's ultimatum. 

Sudden cold prickles his skin, and he shudders at the memory of her tight grip on them both on the ride back to base, of her standing grim-faced in the doorway, not interfering as he pinned Clint to the bed.

"You knew?" he gasps, too tongue-tied to fully voice his horror. It's not possible. If she'd known how Mentallo planned to punish him, she would have warned him and Clint. They could have come up with some plan to avert it.

"It's what I told him to do: Get you to hurt Clint, make you think you'd compromised all your ideals...make you think it was your choice. All it took was that one night, just the one punishment, and none of us were hurt after that."

"You _told_ him to..." Bucky echoes helplessly. He knows her ability to manipulate is unparalleled, that she'd been specifically trained to identify and exploit others' weaknesses. But he refuses to believe that she conspired against him. He shakes his head. "No. No, you wouldn't do that."

Natasha's blank expression crumples, her mouth trembling and her reddened eyes welling with fresh tears even as her posture stays rigid. She doesn't break eye contact or make a single attempt to hide the break in her composure. 

"We called them choices, so that's what you thought they were. You were never in control, James. Mentallo and I were pulling your strings. You didn't make a single decision we didn't script for you."

"That's not true," he says, thinking of the last truly unfettered choice he'd made, the one that had set everything in motion. "I refused to kill for him." 

"Of course you did. That made everything that came next your fault."

Her phrasing reminds him of her strangely insistent words on the ride back from Bratislava: _Whatever comes next, remember it was your choice_. And later that night, while Natasha kept him on his wobbling feet and toweled him off, her quiet words: _Clint's going to say you had no choice. But Clint gave up all his choices years ago. We know better: there's always a choice. We make the hard choices every day, and we live with ourselves after. We do whatever it takes, Bucky. It's all we can do._

Bucky jerks, staring at her lovely face in growing horror.

"No," he says, and it comes out a strangled moan. His knees go weak, and he slides down the wall, only supported by the corner at his back. He's aware of Tony and Steve jumping to their feet in concern, but then Clint is kneeling beside him, right arm snaking around his shoulders.

"Tash, how could you?" Clint demands.

Her shoulders finally slump on a sob, Clint's accusation seeming to hit her hard. "It would have taken _months_ for HYDRA to break him," she rasps. "They would have tortured us every time he disobeyed, until he couldn't watch it anymore. I couldn't let that happen to you again, Clint; you were _mine_. I didn't want to tell him how, but once Mentallo set the plan in motion, I played along."

She drops to her knees before them. She doesn't try to touch, but Bucky can see how her empty hands are clenching as she directs her next words at him.

"I told myself you were just some stranger, that I didn't care about you, that I could just break you quickly and get it over with. But you were so _good_. You changed for our sakes—you tore yourself apart for us. I watched my poison fester in you for years, hurting you worse and worse with every mission, and you just loved us more. And I never said anything to stop it," she adds, with another sob. "I'm sorry, _lapushka_."

An answering sob tears free of Bucky's throat. He aches to reach for her, but the sting of her betrayal is a tangle of confused pain in his chest. He swallows down the swell of emotion and croaks her name.

Natasha pulls back with a shiver. She straightens her spine and meets his gaze with fierce, wet eyes. "You're not guilty of _anything_. You're a good man. You kept us as safe as you could, the only way you knew how. What you're doing here, confessing to more sins? It's just more of what I taught you to do, and I won't watch you sacrifice your happiness for us anymore." 

Clint's arm around his shoulders squeezes hard, and Bucky blinks back into awareness of the rest of his surroundings. Steve is watching them from the far side of the room with an expression like he's in pain. Tony's eyes are red-rimmed and sad, and he's a step closer, one arm behind him as though Steve has caught it and halted his approach. 

Clint is still curled around him, face buried in Bucky's dead shoulder, body shaking subtly as he weeps. His left arm is stretched out, and Bucky focuses helplessly on where Clint is blindly clutching Natasha's hand, her pale skin rendered white by the force of his grip.

She's not squeezing back, her small fingers limp in his grasp. In the few seconds that Bucky'd looked away, everything about her posture has become withdrawn, shoulders hunched, her free hand gripping her thigh to keep from reaching out. Her fierce expression is nowhere to be seen, leaving a hollow sort of devastation in her eyes as she waits for his judgment.

The sight of his proud Natasha so broken down wrenches him from his paralysis. 

He stretches out his trembling hand. "Tasha," he whispers.

She hesitates for a moment, fear naked on her face, then throws herself against his good side, curling across his chest and hiding her face in his shirt.

Bucky wraps his arm around her shaking frame and rocks them all gently, his mind reeling from her revelation. 

He's not sure how much time passes—enough for his friends' sobbing to subside into occasional tremors. He hears shuffling footsteps and looks up to find Tony and Steve crouching down barely a foot away, their hands interlaced in a white-knuckled knot, their brows furrowed with concern. 

"God, sweetheart, are you—?" Tony whispers, but cuts himself off with a helpless grimace.

Steve reaches out with his free hand to smooth Bucky's hair back from his face. "We should get you all somewhere more comfortable," he murmurs, fingers lingering to carefully stroke Bucky's right cheek.

Bucky blinks dry eyes but doesn't otherwise react, too numb to really register the tender caress. He absently takes in their forgiving expressions and doesn't know how to feel. He thinks he should be scared—he's clearly failed to save his doms from himself—but his feelings are offline, forced deep out of reach by the day's shocks.

\---

Bucky's bedroom is dark, the three of them sharing the bed in mimicry of the only solace they used to know.

"Come on, please, Tasha," Bucky murmurs softly, but she shakes her head and continues staring silently at the ceiling.

She's stiff as a board between them, her arms tight around her torso, refusing to be comforted despite Bucky's and Clint's exhausted, fumbling efforts.

He's seen her like this before—whenever she returned from private interviews with Mentallo. She'd been withdrawn for days every time, disturbingly silent and rejecting touch.

He'd always wondered what Mentallo did to her in those sessions. She'd never answered Bucky's inquiries, but he thinks she finally gave him a clue today: the telepath had used his powers to force her to talk, to share her uncanny ability to read and manipulate people. He'd used her insight against them.

She'd never let on. How like her to suffer in silence rather than confess to a weakness that they couldn't protect her from.

"Talk to us," he pleads in a whisper.

Natasha presses her lips together in a thin line and shrinks even further into herself.

Staring at her tightly closed mouth, Bucky abruptly realizes that she's afraid of her own words. She'd been horrified when he asked her how to manipulate his doms, had warned him that such manipulation would make him a monster. Hadn't she known from first-hand experience? Considering her training, she's lived with that guilt most of her life.

"Come back, Tash," Clint begs in a soft, urgent tone, stroking her hair and curling closer around her left side. "Please, please come back to me." Her only response is a slight tremor when he nuzzles her shoulder and whimpers his pleas into her neck.

Clint and Natasha had held Bucky like this in their shared bed after he'd hurt Clint, her teeth sunk deep in his shoulder while he'd sobbed as he felt himself breaking. He's shied away from memories of that night for years, but now he pulls them forward, searching for everything he missed while he was focused on his own pain. He'd thought she'd been teaching him a lesson, using physical pain to distract from the psychological anguish. But had she needed it, too? The closeness...or something to stop her mouth? Had she been shaking even as she held him in place? He can't be sure. 

But there'd been a moment even before that, when she had first pieced him back together. After she'd helped Clint off the bed and gotten him cleaned up, she'd stood before Bucky where he cowered in a corner of their bedroom and had dragged him to his feet. She'd pushed him into the shower, joining him under the punishingly hot spray, and while he'd shook and wept, trying to scald the skin from his body, she'd held him up and hummed a lullaby in her rare, husky voice. 

It'd been a strange, never-repeated gesture of comfort, the only time he'd ever heard her sing. The tune had been unfamiliar—something from her barely remembered childhood, not from his—but he tries his best to recall it now. 

Laying his hand on her shoulder, his voice cracking with disuse, Bucky hums her lullaby for her. 

Natasha must remember what passed between them, too, because she gasps loudly and fumbles for his hand, tears leaking from her shut eyes.

Bucky laces their fingers together and holds on tight, still humming.

"See? He forgives you," Clint says, voice just carrying over Bucky's song. "That's how it works, Tash. It's okay now. You don't have to be scared anymore."

Bucky looks up to discover Clint staring right at him, his gaze heavy with the same forgiveness he'd offered that night, the forgiveness Bucky's tried to deny for years.

Clint reaches across Natasha's body and grips his bicep, squeezing hard, completing the circuit between the three of them, and Bucky shudders as something massive shifts in his chest. 

Holding Clint's gaze, he swallows and starts the lullaby over again for Natasha.

Maybe there's still some hope for all of them after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation:**  
>  _Akh lapushka, bednyy durak, vsegda khochesh' byt' geroyem_ = Oh Little Paw, you poor fool, always trying to be a hero


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrendering control

Sleep doesn't come. Bucky lies very still and slows his breathing, focuses on emptying his mind, but meditation has never been his strength, and the tension crawling beneath his skin continues to build.

Clint and Natasha are curled into each other, sharing a pillow, breathing the same air. They're deep asleep, blissfully unaware of the dread that's keeping him awake.

He exhales shakily and pushes the thought away, concentrating on how good it feels to hold them again. The three of them had been drifting apart for the past year, and coming to New York, being imprisoned in Stark Tower, had only made things worse. But right here, right now....

Curved around Natasha's back, he's acutely aware of her small, precious body. For years he'd thought her invincible, untouchable; she'd been well-trained to conceal her vulnerable points. But once inside her heart, she's just as easily hurt as the rest of them, just as prone to destructive acts for good and bad reasons. Her admission of complicity had rocked him—he'd never suspected the role she'd played, nor the guilt that weighed on her. 

His muscles twitch with a momentary urge to pull away, but he suppresses it. 

Natasha's claim of responsibility had been shocking, but in the stillness of the night he's identified the holes in her argument. Of course she's not to blame—not once he factors in Mentallo's mind control and the pragmatic survival instinct the Red Room had carved into her. He knows she couldn't have stopped it, even if she'd wanted to. How could he not forgive her something that was so out of her control?

Unlike himself.

Despite her claims, nothing in her confession actually absolves Bucky of responsibility for his actions. Her ability to anticipate his choices doesn't mean he didn't make them. Worse, whatever vulnerabilities she saw in him and taught Mentallo to exploit, they had existed before he fell into HYDRA's clutches. Tasha had known where to apply pressure, but ultimately it was Bucky's own weakness that led him to give in. Just like it was his finger on the trigger, his body holding Clint down— 

But even in sleep, Clint's arm is outstretched, his hand curled over Bucky's hip, offering a forgiveness he doesn’t deserve, for a harm Bucky never should have caused him. 

His friends would have been better off without him. His presence has only ever brought them both unnecessary suffering. 

Bucky's breath catches in his throat as the suppressed dread roars back to the surface of his mind.

He hadn't been thinking of Natasha and Clint at all on his determined march to the interrogation room. And in his attempt to save Tony and Steve from themselves, he's made the situation unfathomably worse for them all.

Dugan had predicted up to 48 hours, but the authorities will come much sooner now. Someone will see that recording, hear Bucky and Natasha both admit to collaborating with their captors, and there will be no further delay, no niceties like legal representation or house arrest. They'll mobilize _today_.

He still hasn't passed on Dugan's warning. His friends don't know that this safe space is now a time bomb with a frighteningly short fuse. Forces will be coming. And the Starks will stand by Bucky and his friends.

He clenches his teeth against a sickening wave of helplessness.

Steve and Tony had been careful with the three of them in the aftermath of the confessions, their eyes wet with sympathy and their hands gentle as they helped Bucky and his friends to their feet, murmuring promises that everything would be alright, that they'd all be taken care of. His doms had shown none of the condemnation Bucky'd sought to engender—what his crimes should have inspired.

Confessing how he'd broken had been his last weapon. They know the worst of him now, from his most intimate betrayal to the staggering scope of his culpability, but still they won't reject him.

Breathing in the achingly familiar scent of Natasha's skin, he knows the truth in his heart: They love him enough to forgive all of his crimes—just like Clint has always loved him too much to blame him, just like Bucky loves Natasha too much to resent her manipulations. 

Love doesn't make any of them innocent; it makes them easier to hurt. It means Bucky's failed. The Starks will go ahead with their plan to run, and there's nothing he can say to stop them.

He's destroyed them as surely as he destroyed the Élysée.

His guts churn at the visceral memory of every bloodied, twisted body he's left in his wake. His heart rate speeds up, the muscles between his shoulder blades coiling with unbearable tension. 

He can't let them throw their lives away. He _can't_. There has to be something he can still do. 

He can't talk them out of running. Even knowing his guilt, they still plan to become fugitives to keep him safe. There's no objection he could make that would stop them.

In the darkness, the walls close in and the blankets pin him down, trapping his body just like his mind is trapped in his circular thoughts. He needs an out.

He unwraps himself from Natasha and pulls away from Clint's unconscious grip as carefully as his roiling panic allows, and slides carefully toward the side of the bed. Let his friends sleep undisturbed while they can; they deserve what peace is left in this place, before their lives are once more thrown into upheaval by Bucky's foolish decisions.

They don't need him fucking up their lives anymore. It'd be better for everyone if he just disappeared altogether, before they could raise a protest....

His heartbeat trips at the idea, and he freezes just as he gets his first foot on the floor. 

He could....

He _can_. It's one thing that's still in his power. 

He can still turn himself in. He can take the blame for everything, distract the authorities from his friends so they can start new lives for themselves and disappear into anonymity, finally free of all their oppressors. He just has to make sure no one realizes his plan before it's done.

The Starks would try to stop him, but he can sneak out under their noses. It has to be _now_ , while his doms are giving him this time alone with his friends. The interrogation room had been abandoned, but he hasn't heard anything about their house arrest being lifted; he can walk down the stairs to the lower floors, right into SHIELD's custody.

Steve and Tony won't accept his decision, of course, and he’s sure Jarvis will alert them the moment he leaves their floors. SHIELD will have to be ready to relocate him immediately to somewhere defensible, somewhere his doms will think twice before attacking.

If only there was a way to alert SHIELD to his intentions—

He's off the bed without a second thought, grabbing his shoes in the dark and slipping out the door, lightheaded with adrenaline.

\---

Even before the hourglass icon appears on the screen, Bucky's cursing himself for wasting valuable time.

It's almost 0300—Dugan's probably asleep. Or if his superiors found out about the warning he'd sent Bucky yesterday, his access to video messaging has been cut off, to say nothing of the possibility of court martial.

He's pacing the floor of Clint's empty bedroom, working himself into a sweat, when the hourglass blinks away, the screen filling with Sergeant Major Dugan's face.

 _\- "What is it? Barnes? What's wrong?" -_ Dugan's voice is rough with sleep, but his fingers are flying, buttoning his shirt unerringly even as he takes in Bucky's agitation. 

Bucky jerks to attention. "I apologize for calling at this hour, sir," he says, feigning calm while he lies, "There's no emergency."

Dugan grunts and leans back from the camera. _\- "You got me up; something must be going on. Report." -_

Bucky spares a glance for the ceiling, taking the risk that the AI will honor his request for a private conversation. "The situation here has changed. I need you to get a message to the Director of SHIELD. Can you do that?"

Keen eyes study him for several seconds, and Bucky bites his impatient tongue and tries not to fidget.

Finally Dugan nods. _\- "Fury gave me his number. He said I might need it someday," -_ his voice trails off speculatively. _\- "You been cooking up one of your crazy schemes? With **him**?" -_

Bucky blinks and reconsiders Dr. Banner's words about Fury's calculations. Maybe the director had known it would come to this. It’s a demoralizing thought. "I'm turning myself in. I want to be sure SHIELD is expecting me."

Dugan's eyes narrow. _\- "What's your angle?" -_

"No angle. I'm going to plead guilty on all counts."

_\- "Bullshit! You've had some shit-for-brains ideas in the past, Barnes, but this takes the cake. Turning yourself in—they'd crucify you!" -_

"You know time's running out for the three of us. I won't let anyone else be hurt because of me."

_\- "I think you're forgetting a few people that would hurt—" -_

"I'm doing this for them!" Bucky assures him in a rush. "For all of them! It's for the best, sir. It's what I want." 

_\- "You're running away from your dominants," -_ Dugan says, rubbing his eyes with his palms. The lateness of the hour is suddenly evident in the slope of his shoulders. _\- "You always do this, Barnes—" -_

"I'm protecting them! They're throwing everything away for me!" he protests, bristling at the disappointment in his former CO's tone.

 _\- " **Good** ," -_ Dugan says, crossing his arms and frowning at him. _\- "After what you've been through, it's time somebody put you first." -_

"You warned me the authorities are coming. You know we can't stay here. The Starks plan to become fugitives for the rest of their lives!"

 _\- "I had a feeling it'd come to that," -_ Dugan says, his grave acceptance leaving Bucky flat-footed. 

Did _everyone_ know he was destined to destroy his doms?

_\- "It's a damn shame, but I'm heartened to hear they're realists. They'll take good care of you." -_

"I'm not letting them sacrifice their lives for me!"

 _\- "Because it's not your idea?" -_ There's something sharp in Dugan's tone.

"They don't know what they're doing," Bucky insists, ignoring the interruption. "I have to do this for their sakes."

 _\- "Look at me, Sergeant," -_ Dugan says sternly.

Bucky falls silent automatically, for all that his skin crawls with shivery dread. He hides his fist at his side and his eyes slide toward the door, measuring the steps it will take to cross the room and put his plan in motion. Dugan can't keep him here. This is Bucky's choice; no one can tell him what to do anymore. Whatever Dugan's about to say to him, Bucky can still walk away. After a deep breath, Bucky meets Dugan's eyes.

_\- "Taking responsibility for your actions and your men is an invaluable trait in a leader. But you always took it too far. You always had to be in control." -_

Bucky hides a jolt as the near-perfect echo of Natasha's words strikes something already bleeding deep inside.

_\- "It wasn't just mother henning the Howlies or arguing with me about tactics, either. It affected your issues with submission, too. You never gave up an ounce of control to anyone—not even when you went under for me. And now this bullshit about protecting your bondmates from themselves? Christ, if it isn't you all over. **You** have to make the calls, **you** have to be the one who sacrifices, right?" -_

Cheeks flaming at the too-knowing accusation, Bucky is momentarily speechless. But his disadvantage is brief. Reminding himself he doesn't have to stand for this, he raises his chin and says, "I didn't call a relationship help line—"

 _\- "The Starks are grown-ass men," -_ Dugan snaps, ignoring Bucky's diversion. _\- "They're more than capable of making their own decisions." -_

"It's a mistake—"

_\- "It's still **their** mistake to make! You don’t get to choose for them." -_

Bucky's planned protest dies in his throat at Dugan's inadvertent reminder of how he'd forced the bonding. He can't shake the memory of tears in Steve's eyes, the blank betrayal in Tony's mere hours later.

_\- "It'd break their hearts to lose you again. Give them a chance, son. They deserve your trust. And you deserve to be taken care of for once." -_

Bucky stiffens. "They don't deserve to have their lives ruined by a terrorist, _sir_."

 _\- "You stow that talk this instant!" -_ Dugan barks, his voice shockingly loud in the quiet room, and Bucky's eyes dart toward the door again. His doms and his friends are all sleeping just down the hall. If they wake up before he can leave.... 

_\- "I will **not** have you calling yourself that, you hear me?" -_

"You weren't there. You don't know what I did. This is what I deserve."

_\- "I know **you** , son. And you don't deserve prison, you hear me? You're going to escape with your bondmates, retire someplace tropical, and put all that shit behind you. **Prisoners of war** do **not** go to prison. What happened to you wasn't your fault." -_

"Article Six, sir," Bucky bites out, his tone bitter with long-ingrained shame. "'I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, _responsible for my actions_.' I broke, sir. I collaborated with the enemy. I have to be held responsible."

Dugan scowls fiercely. _\- "Article Six also told you to trust in the United States of America. But we let you down. It was the Corp's job— **my** job—to rescue you. And we failed you. As your dom and as your CO, **I** failed you." -_ Dugan hesitates for an instant before adding in a gentler voice, _\- "And I'm so goddamn sorry, son." -_

Bucky's anger deserts him in the face of Dugan's raw sincerity, leaving only a queasy, desperate urgency. "It was my own fault, my stupid plan—"

_\- "Mission approval was my responsibility. I looked over your plan and gave it the go ahead. I failed to anticipate all the risks my men would face. Shit happens in war, and mistakes get made, but that's on me, Barnes, not you." -_

"I..." Bucky tries to protest, but his stomach lurches as the ground slips away below his feet. _It couldn't have been Dugan's fault. It couldn't._

Feeling like he's suffocating, Bucky moves to end the call, but he hasn't secured Dugan's agreement yet. He gulps and forces out, "Will you make the call?"

Dugan doesn't seem to hear him, looking right through him with sad, unseeing eyes. _\- "When the Starks told me you were alive, I damn near lost my mind. It made me sick thinking how you must have felt all those years, knowing we'd abandoned you, left you cut off and helpless—" -_

"I need you to make the call to Fury!" Bucky says in a loud rush, frantic to end the torrent of pitying words. There's a smell like burning wires in the air. "Will you do it, sir? Can I count on you?"

The answering pause is ominous, and Bucky's nails dig into his palm as he braces himself for the next attack.

Dugan's stare is intense, his voice utterly relentless when he says, _\- "I don't know what you went through. Maybe you'll never tell me—that's your right. But you have to stop holding yourself responsible for what you couldn't control. Your capture was my responsibility. Whatever happened, whatever they did to you, you're not to blame." -_

Bucky stumbles backward, away from the words crushing his lungs like a fistful of smashed ribs, like the _click click click_ of tightening straps— 

"Sir," he gasps. He braces his shaky legs against the side of the bed. He has to escape this conversation—this room—the _Tower_. He can't wait another second. He swallows bile and tries to make his voice steady. "You have to make the call to SHIELD _now_. I'll be coming down the stairs in two minutes."

Dugan rears back, visibly alarmed. _\- "No, son, don't do this. Go with your doms, let them take care of you. It's not right to—" -_

"Two minutes, sir. I'm counting on you to keep them from shooting me on sight," he says, and raises his voice over Dugan's protests to add, "End call."

The screen goes mercifully blank, and Bucky gives in to the urge to close his eyes, repeating to himself that his plan will still work. Dugan will make the call—even if he disapproves, Dugan couldn't put Bucky in danger like that. Everything is still under control. But there's the rushing of a cold wind in his ears, the feeling of cold metal hands exploring his body, and he's staggering for the door before he even opens his eyes. 

Dugan's wrong about him, about everything. Bucky knows what he did. He made the plans, took the shots, carried out the missions of his own volition. He's always been in control of his actions, no matter what Natasha says. He always had the chance to say _No_. He made his choices, and from this point forward he alone will live with the consequences. Nobody else.

He sags against the doorframe and attempts to get his galloping heart rate under control, but a moment later he's driven onward, pulling the door open with a trembling hand. The hallway is quiet, just the sound of his own too-labored breathing. No one's waiting for him; he's free to make his escape.

The sight of the shut door at the end of the hall hits him like a plunge into icy water, robbing him of breath. He'd approached his dominants' bedroom with good intentions mere hours ago, and vestiges of those dashed hopes wrench at his resolve.

He'd meant to submit, to prove his feelings for them. Despite his best efforts, he'd failed. He doesn't have it in him, whatever trait it is that makes subs want to submit. Even the memory of Clint's blissful smile as he reveled in afterglow prompts as much fear as jealousy; it's just not for Bucky. Dugan was right; there _is_ something wrong with him. He'd never have managed to make it work with the Starks.

He turns his head away but can't shake the accusation that he's taking away their choices. He squeezes his eyelids shut, trying to will away the memories: Tony's voice in the HYDRA cave pleading for him to stay; Steve and Tony reaching out to him in that interview; their voices on the phone, begging him to stop running, to give them a chance. He'd ignored their needs this whole year by staying away—for nothing more than the fear of rejection. 

Hadn't they proven that fear groundless yesterday? That their love could forgive anything?

He's saving them, he reminds himself. He's not running away; they'll know where to find him when they want to visit. They shouldn't have to give up their comfortable lives, their good names for him. But his justifications are hollow, and he bites his lip as he's forced to admit that he'd be rejecting them. They want him _with them_. If he leaves now, he'll belong to the penal system, not to them. 

He tells himself that it's too late now, anyway. With the authorities coming, there's no more time for him to keep trying. He'd had more than a week to get things right with them, but he'd failed. He's loved them for so long, but he allowed his fears to get in the way at every opportunity. 

He'll never get it right.

But the greedy tug of his heart won't be silenced. Now they know the truth—all his truths—and they haven't rejected him. He doesn't have to win them or persuade them of anything; all he'd have to do is let them love him.

He looks down the hall, first toward the dimly lit main room with its doorway to the stairs, then toward Steve and Tony's shadowy door. 

They'd asked him to come to them. They'd known what they were getting into, had planned for the consequences. They've already made their choice.

He could go to them now—could give up this last chance and put his life in their hands. He'd be powerless to stop them, would have to go along as they abandoned their lives to flee to Wakanda. And maybe there are more plans he doesn't yet know about: more destinations, more decisions he'd be placing solely in their hands. If he doesn't leave now, everything will be out of his control.

The very idea is terrifying, brings with it a chorus of cruel laughter: Ebersol's, Mentallo's, and even younger voices. He recoils immediately; he'll _never_ put himself in someone else's power again. 

But his thoughts follow inexorably to the unsettling accusation, voiced by both Dugan and Natasha, that he needs control to an abnormal degree. 

What if they're right?

Gritting his teeth, Bucky forces himself to honestly consider what would happen if he gave up control to his dominants, if he let _them_ decide what happens to him next. 

Instantly his stomach knots painfully, and the muscles in his back pull unforgivingly tight while alarm bells sound in his ears. He breathes doggedly through the din of panic, determined not to give into it this time.

What if he gave Tony and Steve control over his future? He tries to imagine them abusing him, mocking him for his trust, calling him helpless and lording their control over him.

It's impossible. All he can see is Steve's extended hand, the vulnerable offers he'd made in the dark of Bucky's room and late at night on the couch. Steve had always been so careful with Bucky...and on the rooftop he'd been absolutely perfect. He remembers Tony's arms around him, supporting him even after Bucky'd shot him in the back, after he'd confessed to a hundred atrocities; Tony's hands calloused and burned, grimy from the tireless work he'd put into fixing Bucky.

The bond had taken away some of his choices, but his doms never had. They'd never once sought to take his control away from him. They'd waited, hoping someday he'd trust them enough to _give_ it to them.

The clamor in his head falls silent, leaving Bucky standing on solid ground, aware of what he has to do.

Heart thudding with excitement, he walks down the hall.

\---

Bucky taps at the closed door, reluctant to wake his doms despite his urgent need to see them. There's a soft, inquisitive noise from within, and Bucky takes a deep breath and turns the knob.

He peeks inside when the door is only a few inches open, and discovers Steve sitting up in bed, his sketchbook in his hands. A small lamp beside him casts golden light on the skin of his face and arms. Steve drops the book on the bedside table, his eyes locked on Bucky.

"Bucky?" Steve asks quietly. Tony is still asleep, his head resting on Steve's thigh, and Steve runs a hand through his husband's dark hair, gently urging him awake. "Is something wrong?"

"I..." he trails off, watching avidly as Tony curls tighter around Steve's leg before his eyes open with a flutter of black lashes. They're both disarmingly human like this, dressed in well-worn tee shirts and sleep pants. How had he ever shied from their touch? "I'm sorry to wake you."

Tony's head raises at the sound of Bucky's voice, then he's sitting bolt upright, rubbing at his face. "What? What is it? Sweetheart?"

"Come in, Buck," Steve calls, waving him forward even as he swings one leg to the floor. "Is everyone okay?"

"Don't get up," Bucky blurts, slipping into the room. He shuts the door by bracing his back against it, needing the support. "I...I need to tell you something."

Steve stills, half out of the bed, and both of his doms watch him expectantly. The silence is intimidating, but Bucky only allows himself a moment to close his eyes and gather his thoughts.

He'd made them promises yesterday, half-truths meant to reassure them while he had one foot out the door, already determined to leave. If he's going to earn their trust now, he has to start by surrendering his last alternative—and hope they understand what he's giving up.

"Fury's waiting for me downstairs. I was going to turn myself in." Before they can react he adds in a rush, "I didn't want you to throw your lives away, not for me. I thought if I turned myself in, you would all be safe...." He trails off, unable to justify his desperate plan in the face of the lines of hurt that appear on Steve's face. Maybe he should have started with the promises after all?

"But you're not down there," Tony says, studying him with sharp eyes, and Bucky's heart leaps. "You're here."

"I'm here," Bucky nods. He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to leave. I want to stay with you—if you'll let me." 

" _If!_ " Steve cries, instantly off the bed and striding toward him, Tony just behind him. "Darling, of course!"

He wants to focus on the offer in Steve's voice, but their approach is too much, too soon—he's given everything and now they're going to _take_ , engulf him, overwhelm him—and Bucky takes an unthinking step to the side before he can remind himself that this is what he's here for: to put himself in their power.

His brief retreat is enough to slow his doms, who pull up abruptly, just out of arm's reach. Their eyes are wide with a confused mixture of hope and anxiety.

"Sweetheart?"

"Sorry! Sorry, I'm not—" he flounders, wrapping his arm across his chest. How had he messed up already? "I'm trying to do this right. Letting go of control is.... I've never been any good at submitting. I was supposed to be a neutral!" he says, and, to his shame, he can hear the echo of teenage denial in his voice. 

The upheavals of losing his father and moving to the orphanage had been hard on a 14-year-old, but becoming a late-blooming sub at age 16 had been worse. The tighter restrictions of the cloistered submissives' wing would have been unwelcome for any young man who considered himself the equal of his peers. But the moment of discovery had been the real humiliation: one minute he'd been tussling with another kid, a young jerk who just happened to be a dominant, and the next Bucky'd blinked back to awareness to find himself on his knees, surrounded by laughing teenagers.

Bucky digs his nails between his ribs. He hasn't let himself remember that moment for years. 

That day, he'd sworn to never let anyone have that kind of power over him. He'd learned how to submit only enough to meet his body's needs. The clinic dominants had warned him he was going against his own nature, but he'd dismissed their concerns. 

It's time to face the facts.

He clears his throat and says, "I know I'm fucked up about submission. I don't like to give up control. That's why I—why I took advantage of you both. When I thought they were coming to take Nat and Clint away, I panicked and tried to take back control. I hurt you. I'm sorry." 

"It's alright, Buck. I promise—" Steve starts, but Bucky rushes ahead with his fumbling apology.

"It's not alright! I know it was wrong; I should have trusted you—I _do_ trust you. And I want to try again. If you still want me." His words are directed at both of them, but he focuses on Tony as he finishes, knowing he had done the most damage there.

Tony's smile is quick and relieved. "Oh, we do, no question." His lips twist apologetically. "But do you forgive me for being an asshole?" 

Bucky freezes, utterly thrown by the response. "What?"

Tony shrugs and shifts his weight to his other foot. "I was tangled up in my own head, thinking you were after my money or fame or any of the dozen reasons I've always had to be careful around subs. I'm not perfect; sometimes I forget everything isn't about me. But after yesterday.... Let's just say I get it now. You did what you thought you had to do. I should have been more understanding."

He stares helplessly for a long moment, bowled over by Tony's forgiveness. He'd expected to have to beg, to work to win Tony's trust over time. _He'd_ been the one to do wrong, had used and hurt Tony for his own motives. It shouldn’t be this easy.

But he can see the love in Tony's eyes and knows that that's what's driving this too-generous forgiveness, just as it had led Tony to forgive the crimes he confessed yesterday. Maybe it's not such a curse after all? Warmth floods his chest as he finally lets himself _believe_ , and he finds the words he'd come here to say. 

"I want to try to be your sub. I don't know how well I'll do, but I promise to try. I love you both," he adds, painfully aware of having held those words back, only deploying them strategically. Had he thought that speaking them would cost him some advantage over his doms, maybe leave him vulnerable? Even now it takes a conscious effort to surrender the words, to give them up like he's going to give up everything else to these men.

They visibly melt at his declaration, but he has to get out the last part before they distract him. 

"I love you. I want to be _with_ you," his throat threatens to close, but he swallows and forces out, "wherever you choose to go." His breath leaves him with a tremulous rush when he finishes, and he scrapes up some courage to put on a brave face.

Steve blinks wet eyes and takes a tentative step closer. His voice is wondering as he breathes, "Bucky."

"Then you're ours," Tony says gently. "Forever. No one's taking you away from us, and we'll never leave you behind." He reaches out as though to take hold of Bucky's good arm, then seems to rethink the gesture and reaches toward Bucky's hand instead, stopping just inches short and waiting.

Bucky takes Tony's hand immediately, and his heart pounds as the warm grip closes on his hand. "I'm yours. I'm not leaving you, either. You're stuck with me," he says, his smile wobbling with the strength of his emotions.

Steve steps in close, his hand hovering near Bucky's cheek. In an awe-filled voice, he marvels, "You're really ours?"

"Steve, yes," Bucky says softly. He pushes his cheek into Steve's hand, unable to bear the uncertainty in his dom's eyes. "I want to belong to you. Please."

"Yes. _Yes_. God, Bucky, you're so...." Steve trails off as he strokes Bucky's cheek with his fingertips, his expression changing from wonder to a happiness that Bucky can feel deep in his own chest.

"Yours," Bucky finishes for him giddily.

"Mine," Steve agrees with an incredulous smile. The hand that curls around the nape of Bucky's neck is light, but it fits like it was made to be there. 

Bucky gasps his name, giving voice to a surge of longing that he doesn't try to fight. He needs more: more contact, more reassurance, more of his dominant's claim.

Steve moves even closer, until their chests are pressed together, their mouths only a breath apart. 

Bucky leans up into his kiss. 

There's a flicker of shame in remembering how he'd behaved the other times they'd kissed, but Steve's happy murmur is a delightful buzz against his mouth, derailing that line of thought instantly. He'd much rather focus on the addictive feel of Steve's lips moving on his, Steve's hands holding him lightly, catching him when his knees go suddenly weak.

Bucky pulls away to laugh breathlessly at himself. A part of him is bothered by the stereotypically submissive behavior, but then he spots Tony's radiant smile and finds himself grinning in return. He tugs on Tony's hand, pulling him into a smiling kiss of their own. The fit of their lips is awkward, but Bucky can't seem to stop smiling for the joy bubbling up in his heart.

Eventually Tony gives up on kissing and leans into him, his happy sigh a gust against Bucky's lips as Tony rests his forehead against Bucky's. There's warmth on Bucky's back, and he gradually realizes it's Steve's hand rubbing in proprietary circles; even through the fabric of his tee shirt, Bucky's skin sings hungrily for the long-desired touch.

For a long moment all he can do is lean into Tony and shudder, overwhelmed with contentment and, simultaneously, a fierce craving for _more_. He squeezes Tony's hand and tries to find the words to ask for what he wants—if only he knew what that was.

It comes to him like a phantom sensation: the hazy memory of floating safe in his dominants' arms. 

The realization sends a shot of adrenaline through his veins, clearing his head enough to recognize that the euphoria he'd begun to drift in hadn't come from him alone. He must have been experiencing what Dugan had called "emotional bleed through" from his dominants. Even as he's identifying it, he realizes he's already felt it multiple times: Tony's oblivious happiness during the press conference; the nauseating twist of Steve's despair immediately after their bonding, countless moments of distracting tenderness whenever they touched him.

But those sensations had been fleeting and easily dismissed. What he's getting from them now feels a hundred times stronger, as though the bond between them is suddenly a living thing, pulsing with their shared happiness. The words they'd just spoken had been a kind of bonding ceremony, he realizes. Though lacking the fireworks of their first, forced bonding, their sincere, voluntary vows of commitment seem to have stabilized it. 

If their bond is finally real, then all that's left is to take the last step. With his doms' contentment thrumming like a second heartbeat in his chest, Bucky's never felt so happily secure in his life. It's his best chance to try to drop for them. The cowardly voice in his head reminds him of the risks, but Bucky steels himself, determined to face his deficiency head on.

Yet for all his resolve, he still drops his eyes when he clears his throat to say, "Will you...put me under? Please?" 

The moment the words are spoken, second thoughts move in, a decade of fighting the pull inside himself lending weight to all of his misgivings. What if he's wrong—what if he can't submit? Maybe he'll never get it right. What will happen then?

Both of his doms go still, and Bucky's stomach twists in knots. Has he done it wrong already? He holds his breath.

Steve's hand slides up to grip Bucky's good shoulder, holding him firmly. "We love you. We're together now. There's no need to rush that part, Buck."

Cheeks growing hot at the familiar rejection, he shrugs off Steve's hold. He swallows and reminds himself to stay calm. 

"Why not now? Don't you want to?" The questions come out more plaintive than he intended, and he grits his teeth.

"It's not for us," Tony says, squeezing his hand—and Bucky'd forgotten they were still holding onto each other. "It's about what _you_ want."

"I want it."

"Do you?" Steve asks mildly, studying Bucky's face. His eyes are far too perceptive. "Or are you trying to prove something?"

Bucky freezes, caught. A million words crowd his mind, all the reasons he knows he _should_ want it. But the craven voice is louder now, and he can't make the words come out. 

After a damning silence Steve says, "Then we'll wait, Bucky. It's as simple as that."

Defeated, Bucky twists his hand free of Tony's to wrap his arm around himself again. He feels cold without their touch, but he's too humiliated to reach back out. If they won't even let him _try_....

"Hey, hey, tiger. Where are you going?" Tony coaxes in a voice that's kinder than Bucky deserves. A delicate touch under his chin tips Bucky's face up, and he meets Tony's eyes reluctantly. "We'll get there, love. I promise. For now let's just stick to what feels good, okay?"

Bucky hesitates, searching their expressions for any hint of disappointment—or worse, pity. But they're both waiting patiently, hope in their eyes, and he deflates with a long breath.

"Okay," he says, reminding himself to let them call the shots. He only makes things worse when he tries to control what happens between them. "What did you have in mind?"

Tony's eyes twinkle. "Well...I've been running some numbers in my head, and it turns out I owe you 359,000 kisses." He grins at Bucky's huff of disbelief and inches closer. "I might be rounding up a bit."

"That's one hell of a debt you've racked up," Bucky says, trying to keep a straight face. He can't help leaning toward Tony, drawn by his effortless magnetism. "Do your accountants know?"

"Mmm, they say I'm to pay up immediately," Tony murmurs, and cups Bucky's jaw, moving in close. He pauses for the length of one breath, two, and Bucky's eyelids grow heavy with anticipation. 

Tony's kiss is long and drugging. In giving himself over to it, Bucky feels his lingering chagrin transform into relief. There's no need to take action, no need to reestablish any control over the situation; he just has to trust his dominants. As the idea becomes more concrete, Bucky feels his body release the last of the tension that had set in when he'd thought to leave these men.

Steve's hand is low on his back when he breaks for air, and Bucky turns his head expectantly. But Steve just smiles at both of them and says, "Come on, this way," gently propelling them toward the bed.

Tony peppers him with kisses every step of the way, and before Bucky's kiss-addled brain can doubt whether he's ready for the sorts of activities that take place on a bed, Steve's guiding him to sit on the edge of the mattress. His dominants take seats on either side of him, Steve on his right and Tony on his left, their thighs pressing warmly against his.

"Is this alright?" Steve murmurs, laying his hands carefully on Bucky's shoulders, turning Bucky to face him. Steve leans in and rubs his cheek against Bucky's. The rasp of their stubble is electrifying. 

When Steve presses a kiss to his temple, Bucky trembles at the tenderness of the gesture. Steve's lips trail down to his cheek, whisper-soft touches and hot breath, before he pulls back a couple inches, gaze fixed on Bucky's mouth. Bucky closes his eyes and leans up.

But Steve doesn't swoop in for the forceful kiss Bucky expects. Instead he brushes his lips over Bucky's, back and forth, each movement deliberate, sending frissons of sensation racing through Bucky's body until every inch of his skin aches.

He whimpers, pressing forward to try to deepen the kiss, but Steve's grip on his shoulders holds him away for more barely-there kisses. He sobs in frustration, near-frantic with the need for more contact, and turns his head away to gasp, "Touch me? _Please_."

One of Steve's large hands finally slides up to curl around the side of his neck, and Bucky shivers helplessly at the jolt of warmth that rocks through him. He grabs hold of Steve's wrist and ducks his head to kiss his palm.

"Your hands. More," Bucky pants into Steve's skin, barely aware of what he's saying. "The days you wouldn't touch me, I thought I'd go mad."

Steve's breath hitches, and then his dominant pulls away.

"What, no!" Bucky protests, instinctively tightening his hold, but when he sees Steve's face creased with regret, he relents and lets go of his wrist. He's unwilling to risk Steve retreating altogether, though, so he fists the fabric of Steve's shirt and stares up at him, wondering what he did wrong. "Steve?"

"I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you like that," he says, clearly remembering the accusation Bucky'd made in this very room not 12 hours ago. 

Stomach sinking, Bucky shakes his head quickly. "I didn't mean it," he starts, but can't finish the thought. It had been true, though he'd wielded that truth to manipulate Steve into acquiescing to the scene he wanted. "I didn't.... Don't stop, please."

"No, you were right. Please, let me apologize."

Tony's hand settles warm on Bucky's back, moving in soothing circles while they wait for Steve to speak his piece.

"I was too distant," he says, his eyes lowered morosely. "You accused Tony of being in love with a fairy tale, but the truth is I wasn't much better. I'd always dreamed of being wanted by a sub. Someone who saw me, not _this_ ," he says, gesturing to his own body. "When we discovered the bond, I thought that was it. But it wasn't what you wanted."

Bucky's heart aches watching Steve sigh in defeat. He'd never stopped to consider how his year on the run had hurt this man, who'd always seemed so strong. Bucky's own struggle with wanting his dominants too much had come across as not wanting them at all.

"I told myself I was delaying our bond because I wanted it to be your choice," Steve says, then shakes his head. " _I_ wanted to be your choice. I was selfish; I didn't see how you were hurting. I shouldn't have treated you like that. I'm sorry." 

A sob tears its way out of Bucky's throat; he will never not be devastated by his dominant's capacity for selflessness. Steve had made so many offers, and Bucky'd answered them all with ambivalence or, at best, tentative acceptance. Never again.

He lunges forward, scrambling up to straddle Steve's lap. Ignoring his surprise, Bucky buries his fingers in Steve's short hair, driving their mouths together in a breathless claim.

"I love you," he gasps between heartfelt kisses, pressed as close to Steve as he can get. "I choose you. You're mine."

Bucky doesn't let up his assault until Steve surges to meet him, those strong arms finally wrapping around Bucky's body and holding him tightly as his dom takes control of the kiss, matching Bucky's passion with his own. 

Bucky sighs into the kiss and gives way, reveling in being claimed. Steve responds with a wordless growl, his urgency settling into a slow, thorough devouring.

Lost in the kiss, it takes him a long moment to notice Tony pressing up beside him, calloused fingers tracing shapes on sensitive skin where Bucky's shirt has ridden up in the back. Tony leans in to nibble at the spot just below Bucky's ear—hot breath, kiss-swollen lips, and the prickle of goatee creating a welter of sensation that makes the room spin.

Bucky sags in their arms, his skin, muscles, and bones all gone molten, ready to be shaped into something new.

Waves of happiness and desire wash through him, echoing and magnifying his own feelings, and he drifts, only distantly aware of someone moaning happily. By the time he recognizes his own voice, he identifies the in-between, weightless place he'd reached on the roof.

The slow realization that he'd unknowingly begun to slip sets off warning bells through the syrupy haze. Bucky shivers, trying to brace himself for the echoes of laughter, the crush of restraints, the mortification of helplessness that never fails to prevent him from dropping all the way.

"Bucky?"

He wants to cry over the inevitability of losing this moment with his doms. "I'm scared," he admits in a whisper, ducking his head to hide from their disappointment. 

But Steve runs his fingers through Bucky's long hair, tugging firmly to tilt Bucky's face up to his. Steve's eyes are intent; a frisson of anticipation zings up Bucky's spine.

"Do you trust us to keep you safe and with us, no matter what?" Steve asks, his voice going deeper with every word, drowning out the unwanted alarms in Bucky's head.

Bucky nods breathlessly. _Yes, yes._

Steve smiles, and Bucky's momentarily transfixed by the laugh lines around his mouth. He's seen them so rarely. 

" _Then it's okay to let go, darling. We'll watch over you._ " 

Bucky can feel the drop opening beneath him, but he needs more. Unable to look away from Steve, he reaches blindly for Tony, catching his right arm where it's wrapped around Steve's back. 

"You won't let go, Tony?" 

" _I've got you,_ " Tony murmurs in his ear, his voice low and smooth, making Bucky shudder with need. " _Look at Steve, see how much he loves you? He's going to take such good care of you, sweetheart. You just have to let him._ "

Steve's fingers knead firmly at the nape of Bucky's neck. His eyes have gone dark, like deep pools that Bucky could fall into if he wasn't careful. He feels himself sliding toward the edge, but he hesitates.

Tony's hand on his back is warm and solid as he keeps up a steady stream of encouragement in that delicious voice, " _You're perfect, love. So beautiful like this. That's it. Just let go._ " 

" _Trust me,_ " Steve says, so quietly, all his promises shining in the depths of his eyes—and Bucky will never, ever deny him again.

"Yes," he whispers. He closes his eyes with a soft smile.

And he lets himself fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky quotes from the [Code of the United States Fighting Force](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Code_of_the_United_States_Fighting_Force), which establishes expectations for prisoners of war.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy ending

The rhythmic stroking of Bucky's hair does nothing to pull him from the clouds he's floating on. The snag of a strand on a calloused finger merely reminds him that it's Tony's lap he's drifting in, and he hums and rubs his cheek against the soft flannel covering his dom's thigh, reveling in the uncomplicated pleasure.

Tony murmurs something, smoothing Bucky's long hair from his face, and Bucky smiles with closed eyes and sinks deeper into the mattress, enjoying the closeness of his dom, the softness that surrounds him.

He's in his dominants' bed. The thought is so big that the edges slip away from him, leaving him squirming and stretching his limbs just to feel how heavy and loose his body is after years of unremitting tension. He sighs. He's never been more perfectly comfortable in his life. He could stay like this forever.

Tony's touch whispers over the stubble of Bucky's shaved neck, Tony muttering about getting the stitches out, and Bucky rolls onto his back with a noise of complaint, instinctively putting the sensitive area out of reach. Tony's fingers abandon his hair and move lower, drawing feather-light patterns across his chest. 

The unfamiliarity of the gesture finally stirs Bucky's curiosity enough to open heavy eyelids. When he realizes what Tony's doing, Bucky's interrogatory noise becomes a whine.

The last while is a haze of happiness in his memory, a cotton-candy smear of contentment. He'd eventually drifted back to himself enough to recognize his doms pressed close, their hands running over him in long, reassuring strokes. No longer fully under, he'd floated on a cloud of safety and peace for what felt like ages while they spoke softly to each other. After a while, Steve had murmured something and left, and Bucky had curled closer to Tony's warmth, reluctant to come back to earth.

Now, watching Tony trace his own surname on the tee shirt Bucky'd put on for yesterday's calculated attempt at a scene, Bucky shudders as his higher brain functions lurch into gear. The pang of losing that hazy peace is nothing compared to the regret that makes his very bones ache.

His first attempt at speech comes out as a mournful croak, and Tony smiles down at him. "Are you ready to wake up now, love?" 

"'m sorry," he manages.

"Bucky, no, you were beautiful. You did so well, don't apologize—" Tony falls silent when Bucky covers Tony's hand with his own, pressing his palm down over his name.

Bucky thrills at the heat of Tony's hand, but he forces himself to try to explain. "I wanted it to be real. I wanted forever. I didn't know how to make it happen, and I did it all wrong, and I'm _sorry_...."

"Shh, shh, sweetheart," Tony murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to Bucky's forehead. His lips are warm and soft, his beard scratchy; the intimacy of the gesture makes Bucky's eyes water. "It's forever now. It's okay. I promise."

It's too easy; there's no way Bucky has apologized enough to earn this. He owes them months of groveling. But Tony's looking down at him with such love, there's no denying the sincerity of his forgiveness. 

Bucky's heart thuds hard, his emotions still close to the surface after the drop. He nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I promise, too."

Tony smiles wide, and Bucky feels Tony’s surge of his happiness as if it's his own, reigniting the lingering buzz of pleasure in every cell. Bucky's thoughts go fuzzy and syrupy slow for a long moment, and when his eyes open again, Tony's hand is moving in soothing circles on his chest.

"Come on, Bucky," Tony's cajoling. Bucky would worry that he'd missed something, perhaps done something wrong, but his dom's voice is quietly delighted. "We were waking up, remember? Show me those pretty eyes."

Bucky obediently meets his gaze even as he considers sinking all the way back under. It's peaceful in the cradle of Tony's body, floating on the waves of his dom's approval, luxuriating in the contact his skin has hungered for. Getting up would mean facing the world, all the people he's hurt. For a moment his vision swims with unshed tears, and he blinks them clear, seeking out the reassurance of Tony's face. 

The doting smile transforms Tony's features utterly, revealing a smattering of gorgeous crow's feet beside his eyes and none of the grim tension he'd carried the past week. His color has improved, no doubt thanks to a night spent in dynamic haze to complement Bucky's subspace, but dark circles linger beneath his eyes.

Bucky reaches up and rubs gently at Tony's cheekbone, smiling despite himself when Tony leans into his touch. He'd missed so much about his dominants, too caught up in his own fears to appreciate Tony's relentless drive to help him, to fix him any way he could. From the rapid organization of their surgeries to the replacement arm he's dedicated countless hours to, Tony's barely spared a thought for himself since Bucky's arrival, as though he had to race a clock to prove his love for his submissive.

Bucky tenses as the day's deadline hits him in a rush. After yesterday's confession and Dugan's middle of the night call to Fury, it's a shoo-in that SHIELD will come for him today. He needs to warn his doms, so they can prepare to leave—together. The thought chases away the last of his lassitude, and Bucky pushes himself upright with a disappointed grunt.

Tony helps prop him up, wordlessly guiding Bucky to lean against his side. The simple maneuver takes more energy than he can muster right now, and Bucky's grateful for the support.

"Where's Steve?" he makes himself ask. He couldn't bear to deliver the news more than once.

"He's getting us something to drink. He should be back any minute now. You feeling okay?"

Bucky nods and cranes his neck to nuzzle at Tony's neck, enjoying Tony's calloused palm sliding up and down his bare arm, the way his dom's always been eager to touch him. Then he sighs and sits up straight, dragging his body back to full alertness by rolling his joints and flexing his muscles. He's balling his feet when he pauses, frowning at his bare toes.

"What happened to my shoes?"

"They're under the bed. We wanted you to be comfortable. I hope we didn't presume...." 

"It's fine," Bucky says absently. 

It's odd to not remember his shoes being removed, and even stranger to realize he doesn't actually mind. Normally the idea of such helplessness would have his skin crawling—it's one of the reasons he'd sought to learn control over his own subspace, a visceral rejection of the vulnerability that his dynamic made him crave. But he'd surrendered himself completely last night, and they'd kept him safe and whole. 

He's still trying to wrap his mind around the enormity of that thought—the complete upheaval of everything he'd assumed about being a submissive—when the door opens, revealing Steve in his pajamas, his hair still mussed from Bucky's grip.

Bucky beams to see him, and Steve's eyes light up in response.

"Good morning," Steve says, effortlessly balancing a massive tray in one hand as he shuts the door behind him, restoring the privacy of the bedroom.

"Good morning. Did you bring us breakfast in bed?" Bucky asks, eyeing what looks like a mountain of food and drinks.

"You need to eat and drink something after last night."

"Babe, you take such good care of us," Tony praises. 

Steve's lips twitch, clearly fighting a pleased smile, and a blush creeps across his cheeks.

Bucky's stomach flips. The obvious pleasure that caretaking gives his dominant hits him with a surge of longing so strong, he feels it in his back teeth. Tony's hand rubbing circles on his back settles the violent emotion somewhat, but he still whines, reaching toward Steve helplessly.

Steve quickly sets the tray down beside Tony's legs and climbs onto the bed, but though he takes Bucky's hand in his, he keeps his distance, moving to sit by his husband's feet.

"No," Bucky blurts. He won't allow Steve to withdraw from him again. Not now that he knows the insecurities behind his dom's shyness, the endless stores of love that Steve has to give. "Come here," he demands, tugging on Steve's hand.

Steve shifts closer, but his eyes are lowered bashfully, and Bucky has to close the last few inches himself, scooting over to press himself to Steve's side. 

"Good morning," Bucky whispers, and leans in to kiss the pulse point of Steve's throat, feeling his dom's happiness roll through him like a wave. Bucky lays his head on Steve's shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin through his thin shirt, and Steve's left arm slides around his waist, fingers curling under the hem of Bucky's shirt to brush bare skin. Bucky sighs at the rightness of the feeling, the rising tide of contentment that could carry him down so easily.

His stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly, and he lifts his head with a rueful laugh.

Steve squeezes him gently. "Just in time, I see."

"Any longer, and I would've had Jarvis send out a search party," Tony says, leaning forward to claim one of the coffees. He takes a long swallow and cradles the mug to his chest, eyes closed in evident pleasure.

"Here, have some juice. You need the sugar," Steve coaxes, and Bucky's still mellow enough to find his solicitousness unbearably sweet.

There are five different flavors of juice on the tray, all single-serving bottles, and all already opened. Narrowing his eyes, Bucky takes in the bowls of cut fruit and the array of toasted bagels smeared with cream cheese and different colored jams—all of them pre-cut into small wedges. 

Steve had clearly prepared everything with his dead arm in mind. Bucky hasn't let himself be coddled in more than a decade; he's not sure whether he should weep or feel patronized. After a moment's hesitation he does neither.

"Steve," he says softly, unable to tear his eyes away from the proof before him, "you're amazing. Thank you."

The kiss to his temple is too fleeting for Bucky to react, and then Steve's saying, "There are forks for the fruit. Can I reach you anything?"

Bucky wrestles his heightened emotions back under control, smiling and letting the mood pass. He allows Steve to hand him a bottle of orange juice, not even tempted to roll his eyes at Steve's anxious surveillance. 

He's two bites into a piece of bagel when he notices Tony reaching for a second cup of coffee. He frowns, counting up the meals Tony'd skipped in the last few days, and nudges him with the knee still pressed to Tony's thigh. " _Food_ , Tony. Not coffee. Eat something."

There's a moment when Tony looks like he's going to be defensive, but he smiles sheepishly at Bucky instead and grabs a bowl of fruit.

They'll both have to learn to let themselves be taken care of, Bucky thinks wryly. The recent drop is softening their edges at the moment, but it'll take time for them all to learn to live harmoniously. Now that he's finally committed to staying with them, they'll have more than enough time to manage it.

Thoughts of the future bring the day's urgency back to the forefront of his mind. He looks around the bedroom for a clock, finally taking in the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains on both exterior walls. Is it still night? What if it's already midday? What if forces are already en route?

"What time is it?"

"A little past 6:00. The sun's just up." 

It's still early, but there can't be any more delay. Bucky takes a last swallow of juice and sets the half-empty bottle down on the tray, bracing himself for the difficult conversation.

Clearly sensing the tension in Bucky's part of the bond, Steve slides just far enough away to turn and face him and Tony. "Something's bothering you."

"Your plan to run away. To Wakanda? Is it ready?"

"It hasn't come to that yet," Tony says, too quickly. His hand moves toward Bucky's dead arm before settling warmly on his knee.

"Oh, Buck. We didn't mean for you to worry about that. We're handling it. You've been through so much the last few days—you should focus on resting," Steve assures him. 

For once, Bucky lets himself see the sincerity in his dom's eyes. Steve doesn't realize he's being patronizing; he's genuinely doing his best to take care of Bucky without worrying him.

Bucky wishes he were the sort of sub Steve could wrap in cotton wool and save from the world, but it'll never be that easy for either of them.

The words are a fist-sized lump in his throat, but he forces them out, "We have to go today. This morning. You need to call Black Panther right now, set things in motion—"

"Whoa, Bucky, hold up. What's the rush? We were going to spend the day downstairs—I'm almost ready to machine the connection points—"

"SHIELD has yesterday's footage, right?" Bucky prompts them, talking over Tony's interruption. "It's enough to convict us. I admitted I played HYDRA's game, and _Nat_ —"

His doms' stammered reassurances tumble over each other, but Bucky continues, determined to make them believe him this time.

"The authorities have been looking for someone to blame, and we handed them everything they needed. They have no reason to wait anymore. That's why I had Dugan call Director Fury last night."

Steve sits back, suddenly thoughtful. "You mentioned."

"SHIELD was waiting for me to come downstairs. And since I didn't turn myself over when I said I would, they'll be coming for us today. We can't be here when they come." Unsure what to make of Steve's calm demeanor, Bucky presses, "Please, I don't want you anywhere near the line of fire! I couldn't live with myself if—"

"Jarvis, have you seen signs of movement from any of our friends?"

_"Negative, Captain. SHIELD Quinjets have kept to routine patrols of the Eastern seaboard, and security at the United Nations building is still at usual levels. A scheduled shipment of small-caliber munitions arrived at Fort Hamilton during the night, but security was well within established parameters."_

Bucky holds his breath, anxious to know what the reports signify.

Flashing him an understanding smile, Steve catches Bucky's hand in his larger one. "Leaving has always been on the table, Bucky, but only as the last resort. We're not going anywhere until we're positive our attempts to clear your names have failed. We've been watching everyone for days now: WSC, SHIELD, US Armed Forces, the UN—even Doom. If any of them scramble for a move on us, we'll be gone before they get anywhere near the Tower. 

"SHIELD didn't mobilize last night. I'm not saying Sergeant Major Dugan didn't call Fury, but if he did, there was no reaction. That could be a good sign, Buck. We're ready and willing to go, but first we need to see how things play out."

Despite Steve's thumb rubbing soothingly on the back of his hand, a frisson of dread slithers up Bucky's spine, an insidious thought seeking to take root in his mind: _This can't be trusted._

"I need a drink," he croaks to buy time, tugging free of Steve's hold and reaching for a bottle of something red with shaking fingers.

His doms are refusing to go.

He closes his eyes as he sips, willing himself to calm down and swallow past the anxiety. Everything Steve has just said is reasonable. With Jarvis watching the bases with his terrifying, all-seeing gaze, they probably _will_ have enough warning to flee before a single shot is fired. It's a decent plan, so why doesn't he want to trust it?

He trusted them just last night, with his most vulnerable self. Of course he can trust them now. It's hard, but he _can_ relinquish control to them, even of this.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?"

Bucky swallows once more before opening his eyes to give Tony a tentative smile. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Steve asks, brushing Bucky's hair back from his brow. "It's okay to be worried. What do you need, Buck? How can we make you feel safe?" 

He bites his lip in an attempt to keep the words inside, but Steve's searching gaze pulls them forth. "What's the whole plan, exactly?"

Bucky braces himself for affront or disappointment for failing to trust his dom at his word, but there's no trace of either in Steve's blue eyes.

"There's a cloaked Wakandan jet at the Mansion. Even SHIELD doesn't know it's there. When we need it, T'Challa will send it for us while he and the rest of the Avengers stage a diversion," Steve says. "Starting at the base of the Tower, T'Challa, Thor, and Mockingbird will pursue The Three—played by Bruce, Wanda, and Pietro—on foot before losing them a few dozen blocks north."

"You left out the best part!" Tony adds. "Costumes, sure, those were a given. Bruce even has a mockup of your arm to wear. But no, I'm talking _wigs_. The crowning glory!"

Bucky reflexively fingers a lank strand of his overlong hair and winces in sympathy for Dr. Banner even as he's overwhelmed to learn that the rest of the Avengers are on board with helping him and his friends escape prosecution. His guilty conscience surges forward to paralyze him with thoughts of how unworthy he is of such efforts, but he shakes it off and tries to analyze the plan objectively.

An escape from house arrest followed by an Avengers action in the streets of midtown Manhattan would certainly disrupt any planned assault, turning it into a disorderly containment effort as various parties vied for custody. As diversions go, it's ambitious. But what if—

No. Surely his doms have considered all the angles; they don't need Bucky second guessing their plan. 

Despite his attempts to convince himself, he can't stop imagining the possible outcomes. Something feels off. 

Bucky must make a noise of concern, because Steve asks, "What is it?"

He shakes his head, determined to bury his doubts. It's a good enough plan; Bucky doesn't have to control everything. "No, it's nothing. That's quite a plan."

"Bucky, the freedom of every one of us is on the line. If you can make this any safer, improve our chances of getting away clean, please tell us."

He's so rocked by Steve's unexpected open mindedness, the words come tumbling out unbidden. "Starting the fight at the Tower—it's too close to be safe. And frankly it's not believable that we couldn't get at least two boroughs away before being missed. Plus, straight out pursuit is too exposed; news cameras will be all over this. You need chaos to ensure the disguises hold up as long as possible." 

His thoughts are spinning faster than he can speak, weighing and discarding various possibilities in search of the best solution. 

"You need explosions. Something big to attract a lot of emergency crews, but where no civilians are hurt."

Yes. He has it now.

"There's an AIM-owned warehouse at 86th & X—or there was a couple years ago. We would have hit it eventually, but we never got around to crossing the Atlantic. It's right off the Coney Island subway yard. All those train cars—it's perfect for an extended manhunt. 'The Three' blast their way into the warehouse and stir up the hornet's nest, and the uniformed Avengers arrive to clean up what's left." 

He pauses for a second, snapping his fingers until it comes to him, "There's an ambulance depot on the other side of the tracks. It'll provide cover to get Banner and the others away unnoticed while the authorities search the train yard, and the Avengers parade AIM goons in cuffs before the cameras. It should buy us at least another 30 minutes to disappear. Win win."

Bucky blinks back to himself and finds his doms gaping at him. He attempts a nervous smile in return, only to discover he's already smiling—a wild, reckless thing to match the pumping of his heart.

Tony's grin spreads slowly across his whole face. "J, dig up everything on that address. I want title history, blueprints, the works. And pull the electricity and cable tv records going back the last few years."

_"At once, sir."_

"Oh, that sounds _fun!_ " Tony chortles, rubbing his hands together. "Even after the smoke clears, the headlines about The Three taking down an AIM cell in New York would have the WSC shitting kittens."

"It's perfect," Steve agrees, slowly shaking his head. "You—you're perfect."

The relief is so intense, Bucky has to press his hand to his chest and just breathe. His doms aren't horrified by this display of the tactical skills that had wreaked havoc across Europe. Tony's _delighted_ by him, by what he can do, his happiness fizzing in Bucky's lungs like champagne. And Steve—

Bucky opens his eyes and gasps to find Steve's hand so close, inches away from his face. 

"You're so brilliant, darling, so _good_." Steve's fingers brush Bucky's cheek with an electric shock that makes Bucky’s fingers and toes tingle. "You make me—us—the luckiest men in the world."

Aware he can't hope to respond to such a declaration with words, Bucky leans forward to kiss him. He lights up at the touch of their lips, his entire body burning with love for this impossibly generous man.

Steve moans and cups Bucky's face with both hands, dropping kisses over Bucky's cheeks, the bridge of his nose, even his chin before returning to his mouth. They're both smiling too wide for a proper kiss, though, and pull apart to grin at each other. 

Steve releases him with one more short kiss and tucks Bucky under his arm.

Tony's watching them avidly, his knee bouncing with ill-repressed excitement.

"Don't get carried away, Tony," Steve warns him. "It's still the _backup_ plan. Just because you want to see Bruce in a wig—"

The laughter that bursts out of Bucky's mouth startles them all, and he buries his face in Steve's shoulder for a moment, overwhelmed by the lightness bubbling in his chest.

Tony's hand wraps warm around his ankle, and Steve squeezes him tight, and Bucky gulps and tries to pull himself back together.

"How are you doing, Buck?" Tony asks, almost pulling off nonchalance.

"I'm okay," Bucky gasps, looking up with a smile so wide his cheeks ache. "Just...happy."

His doms relax, beaming at him with matching fond smiles, and then Steve rumbles, "You're probably still hungry, too. You should eat." 

Bucky and Tony roll their eyes at each other, but they both dutifully reach for the forks.

\---

"What do you think?"

Clint's a ball of tension pressed under Bucky's dead arm, but he chuckles and says, "As long as the Avengers wouldn't embarrass us by making it look too easy, I guess I'm for it. Nat?"

She hums and curls her toes. "It's not bad on the whole. But the wigs are practically farce. Really, James?"

Bucky groans. "I told you, the wigs were Tony's idea, not mine."

She laughs silently, hiding her smirk against his knuckles. She's seated on the couch on Bucky's right. Unlike Clint, she's facing him, arms propped on her knees, which are drawn up like a barrier. There's a still-tender distance between them in the aftermath of yesterday's confessions, like a cracked rib that's just beginning to heal, but her bare feet tucked under his thigh give him hope, as does the way she hasn't let go of Bucky's hand since she sat down.

"So, Wakanda with the Starks, huh?" There's nervousness creeping into Clint's tone.

"Maybe, if things don't work out here. Wakanda doesn't extradite; we'll be safe there. We can finally make a home. ...You've never killed anyone there, right?" Bucky asks, thinking of the unsanctioned hits Clint had unwittingly carried out for his Army handler.

Clint rolls his eyes. "No, it's fine. It's whatever. Just.... It's nothing."

"What about you?" Natasha asks before Bucky can pin down the source of Clint's concern. "Wakanda wasn't your idea. Are you really okay with it?"

Bucky can hear the real question clearly: _Are you okay with following your dominants' lead?_

"It's...new," he says, trying to gather his thoughts. "But I trust them. And they didn't just dictate the plan; they let me modify it, make suggestions." 

Once he'd expressed his concerns, they'd even sought his advice, treating him as an equal in deciding his own fate. Bucky's fears of having to permanently sacrifice his autonomy now seem ridiculous in the face of their enthusiastic adoption of his suggestions.

"So...." she prompts, mischievous smile dancing at the edges of her mouth.

He huffs, "Fine! It's nothing like I thought it would be. They're not domineering," he concludes, embarrassed by the prejudices he'd brought to the bond.

"I could've told you that," Clint snorts, pinching his side, and Bucky bumps Clint's head with his chin in retaliation.

"I think they’re a little better than that," she says, lightly squeezing his hand between both of hers. "You seem settled. Happy. A far cry from last night."

Bucky grimaces. He'd hoped to avoid mentioning his last foolhardy gambit. "I nearly turned myself into SHIELD," he admits. He rushes to finish before they can react, "I changed my mind, though. I chose Tony and Steve instead. And yes, it may mean leaving for Wakanda, but that's their choice, too."

"It's okay. I'm proud of you, _lapushka_. I wasn't sure you'd ever willingly give up control, let alone to dominants."

He ducks his head, humbled. "I'm ready to _share_ it now, I think?"

"Come here," she says, and reaches to tug Bucky's head toward her. She kisses his forehead, then pulls away just far enough to meet his gaze, her eyes searching his as she says, "I always knew you were a good man. You deserve every good thing." 

Bucky swallows down his instinctive denial. He may never believe himself as blameless as his doms and his friends do, but he's trying to be open to the idea. Maybe someday he'll consider himself worthy of any of them.

"You deserve to be happy with them," she insists, able to read his equivocation. "You'll be happy enough for both of us, yes?"

"Tasha," he says, throat closing up at the melancholy in her voice. "I'm not leaving you—"

"Shh, all is well. We'll all five of us leave together, if it comes to that."

Bucky nods, gripping her hand tightly. Love for his dominants burns incandescent, but she'd carved her own place in the depths of his heart years ago. Despite the ways they've betrayed each other, he wouldn't lose her for the world.

"You guys are so melodramatic," Clint says, but he curls more tightly around Bucky, hands fisted in the hem of Bucky's shirt.

"Did someone say 'drama'? That's my department!" Tony exclaims, and the three of them startle, turning their heads to see the Starks enter the main room. Tony's goatee has been carefully reshaped for the first time in days, and he's dressed for working in his lab in a tee shirt and jeans. Steve's equally casual in a blue henley that brings out his eyes.

Tony spreads his arms, gesturing to the bright daylight entering the room through the wall of windows. "Ahh, it's a great day! The sun is shining. We may be on the cusp of becoming international fugitives— _again_ , in your case. I always say, when you've found your signature look, don't change it. And darlings, you rock it."

Clint scowls with his whole body, and Tony's expansive energy immediately drops to a more cautious level.

"Too much, babe," Steve chides him, and gives them all a gentle smile, his eyes focused on the places where they're wrapped around each other. "Clint, Natasha. Have you eaten? Can I get you anything?"

"We're fine," Nat says.

"Hey, if you're offering. I wouldn't say no to pancakes," Clint says with feigned good humor. He still hasn't looked away from Tony.

"Coming right up," Steve says, heading into the kitchen after a brief glance at Tony and then Bucky.

Silence falls for an awkward minute before Tony clears his throat. "Right. Barton. I ah..."

Clint pulls away from Bucky and crosses his arms to stare Tony down, and Bucky belatedly realizes that the two of them haven't spoken since Tony'd accidentally used his _voice_ on Clint two days ago.

"I'm not big on apologies. I usually just—hey, you wouldn't want a suit of armor, would you? I could design you something—I mean, after I'm done with Bucky's arm—no, of course not, terrible idea, forget I even—." He snaps his fingers and points a finger gun at Clint. "What would you say to a million dollars?"

Despite a twitch of excitement at the mention of that much money, Clint frowns deeper and says, "Does it come with an apology?"

Tony immediately relaxes as though sensing Clint's interest, smile spreading across his features. "A gold-plated apology. With effusive professions of respect and a vow to never, _ever_ do it again."

Clint holds his expression for another five seconds before caving. "Yeah, okay. Fine. I'll need an offshore account so you can transfer the money."

If Tony had thought that Clint was joking about considering his offer, he doesn't show it. "Deal. Welcome to the millionaire club, hot shot. This calls for a celebratory toast. You kids like champagne?"

"Isn't it a little early for—" Bucky begins.

"Champagne is for children and old women. Break out the vodka."

Tony blinks at Natasha, visibly startled, before rolling with it. "Ahh, if only we'd met five years ago, Natasha." 

"I'd have been on contract to kill you," she deadpans, but there's amusement lurking at the corners of her eyes.

"Yes, but think of the fun we could have had first."

She gives Tony a slow once over then cocks her head, smiling crookedly. "Sorry, Stark. You're not my type." 

"Not your type!" Tony echoes with feigned indignation, "Listen here, miss, I am _everyone's_ type."

Bucky can only boggle at their interplay, at how Tony can make jokes about her history of violence. He'd never dreamed of his dominants being so comfortable with this side of the three of them.

_"Please pardon the interruption,"_ Jarvis says. _"But Director Fury is on the line."_

Bucky jumps to his feet, immediately followed by his friends. Have his doms had time to brief the Avengers on the new plan, yet? Is time up already?

As the projection screen descends from the ceiling, Steve emerges from the kitchen, wiping flour off his hands. He and Tony take up their usual positions in front of the screen. Bucky moves to stand between them, ready to face the music.

"Go ahead, Jarvis," Steve says, and reaches for Bucky's hand.

The feeling of Steve's fingers interlacing with his has an immediate calming effect on Bucky's racing heart, and he lifts his chin and waits. 

The video feed clicks on to display Fury's baleful glare. The Director stands with his arms crossed, as imposing as ever, and Bucky can't help but tense up in response.

"Good morning, Director," Steve says coolly.

Fury snorts. _\- "I wouldn't know. I've been up all night because **someone** disturbed my beauty sleep." -_ His gaze fixes on Bucky. _\- "I'm not a fan of being stood up, Barnes. Think twice next time you want to involve me in some pointless grand gesture." -_

Bucky's breath catches. The rebuke had been expected, but the phrasing.... 

_Pointless?_

"Spit it out, tall, dark, and crotchety. What's going on."

_\- "I have news. The tribunal voted last night to drop all charges. No trial needed, no more house arrest, complete exoneration for The Three. I'm not saying the whole world's gonna be happy about it when the news breaks—it wasn't a unanimous decision, and I wouldn't invest in a timeshare in Latveria if I were you—but you're all free and clear." -_

Bucky starts to shake, his lungs locked with shock. It's not possible, not after everything they'd admitted— 

"Not that that's not wonderful news, Director, but we're going to have to ask how," Steve says, his hand tight around Bucky's.

_\- "A video package made its way into the hands of the more open-minded members of the tribunal. I'm not going to lie, gentlemen, things were looking grim. But I finally got the footage I needed to demonstrate that The Three's cooperation was coerced," -_ he says, foreboding expression replaced by a smug smile.

"The footage you needed," Bucky repeats queasily. 

He's no fool; he knows the Director is referring to the confessions he and Natasha made before the double-sided mirror in the interrogation room yesterday. Bucky'd been the one to call for the cameras to roll. But to think that the revelation of those crimes had _helped_ them....

_\- "The panel weren't connecting with the mind-control defense, but they understand old-fashioned coercion. The remorse wasn't a bad showing, either." -_

Of course.

Bucky'd feared that his friends' attempts to brazen out the questioning had made them come across as cold-hearted monsters. But even aware of that danger, Bucky had made the same mistake himself and hidden his regret in the interrogations, driven to play the villain rather than risk being seen as a victim.

"If it was your idea to bring that WSC dickhole into our home—" Tony starts angrily.

Bucky's eyes narrow as he tries to puzzle out Fury's logic. Once the interrogations had ended, he couldn't have counted on Bucky breaking down before his cameras.

Unless he'd still been applying pressure somehow. 

"Dugan," Bucky blurts suddenly. Dugan had passed on tales of strange maneuvering at the Pentagon, of Director Fury's presence in a meeting discussing an impending assault on the Tower—the very warning that had set yesterday's desperate events in motion. "You used Dugan."

Fury smirks at him, and Bucky has to reluctantly admire the man's ruthless brilliance.

Steve speaks for him. "I appreciated you having my back when I was going after HYDRA, but this is.... I'm not saying you're a cold-hearted bastard, Nick, but I have to wonder what you stand to gain from all this." 

_\- "I've always been a believer in matrimonial bliss, however inconvenient," -_ Fury says, his smile displaying an impressive number of teeth. _\- "I look forward to having you and your husband back in uniform after the honeymoon, Captain." -_

Bucky's jaw drops as the last of the pieces fall into place. Dr. Banner had warned that Director Fury's tribunal would find them whatever was _most convenient for SHIELD_. All this time, SHIELD had been supporting him and his friends in order to prevent their unexpected bond from resulting in the permanent loss of two Avengers. 

When he considers how ready his doms were to become fugitives to protect him, Bucky can see how real the risk was.

"What!" Tony sputters, indignantly, and Fury's smile becomes wolfish.

_\- "As for you three," -_ he says, his gaze touching on Clint and Natasha before landing on Bucky, who's just starting to bristle on their behalf. _\- "SHIELD's hiring for agents of your caliber. Or there's always room on the Avengers roster..." -_

Steve squares his shoulders, but Bucky beats him to the punch.

"Fuck off," he says as loudly and clearly as possible. Bucky can't think of a time he's ever been able to say that to a person in authority without fear of repercussion, but Steve's grip is sure, and Tony is puffed up beside him.

"Yeah, what the love of my life just said. We're keeping them all, Scary Spice, so hands off."

Bucky decides not to worry about Tony's possessive language. In a showdown with a well-funded paramilitary organization, there are worse people to belong to.

_\- "We'll see," -_ Fury shrugs, unperturbed by their rejection. _\- "You never know what the future will hold. Speaking of the future, I expect Iron Man and Captain America back on duty in two weeks, gentlemen, and your performance had better be worth the headache I've incurred. Now, I have a news story to break. I'll leave you all to celebrate." -_

The screen goes blank, leaving Bucky reeling.

He turns to his friends and sees their faces lit up with excited disbelief. The reality of freedom is slow to sink in, but he feels his own face brightening to match theirs. 

No more running. They're safe here at the Tower; this is home now. And no more _hiding_. All three of them could walk out onto the city streets later today as free as the day they were born. It seems impossible. 

He's still marveling at the news when his friends tackle him in a laughing embrace. Natasha's slender arms are tight around his neck, her smile outright giddy as she presses her cheek to his. Clint's embrace threatens to crush Bucky's ribs, and his laughter is breathless, verging on desperate, against Bucky's shoulder. 

Bucky's speechless, completely overwhelmed. After all the years of hardship, they're finally _free_.

It was long in coming, but the freedom that he'd promised them has finally manifested, dropping on them when they'd least expected it. Whatever comes next can't erase the hell they suffered, but they've needed this so badly, for so long. He hugs them back as best he can with one arm, letting the heady relief rush through him.

It's a full minute before he can raise his face and look for his doms. They're in an embrace of their own, arms slung about each other as they smile broadly at Bucky and his friends. He's returning their smile, gratitude light on his tongue, when the elevator chimes.

Pepper Potts comes hurrying into the room in a white skirt suit and intimidatingly high heels.

"Tony! Jarvis said the lockdown’s over and SHIELD is pulling out! Is it true? Is it—"

Tony's already breaking away from Steve to meet her. "Pep! It worked! They're cleared! It's all over!"

While Tony and Potts hug excitedly, Bucky extricates himself from his friends' grips to go to Steve, who looks like he still can't believe the good news. 

Steve smiles at him helplessly and slides his right arm around Bucky's shoulders, pulling him close. Steve's eyes drift back to where Clint and Natasha are clutching each other close, fists in each other's hair and foreheads pressed together, whispering urgently in barely audible Russian.

"You did this, Buck," Steve says, absolutely radiating pride, and Bucky's heart could burst from the wonder spilling into him.

"You and Tony did," he starts, determined not to take any of the credit that belongs solely to his doms, but then Tony appears beside them leading Ms. Potts.

"Pep, I want to officially introduce you to Bucky," Tony says, the morning's besotted smile back in place. "Sweetheart, this is Pepper."

"We, uh, we've already met," Bucky says, pasting a polite expression over his sudden wariness. Her entirely justified dislike is still fresh in his memory.

But Tony's arm snakes around Bucky's waist, and he can't help but melt into the arms of his doms, seeking comfort during the stressful introduction.

Ms. Potts's narrowed eyes follow him, then flick up to Tony's face for a long moment. Finally her expression softens. Holding out a perfectly manicured hand, she says, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bucky. Please, call me Pepper."

Bucky shakes her hand nervously, but her smile remains warm and inviting, and eventually he offers a sincere smile of his own. "Pepper. Thank you for your help last week."

"Think nothing of it," she assures him, reclaiming her hand to smack Tony's arm. "But _you!_ We are burning those papers, Tony! I'm never going through that again, you hear me? Never!" 

"Natasha, Clint, come meet a friend of ours," Steve calls, and Bucky looks over to see they're already watching, their attention no doubt caught by Pepper's raised voice.

They're still a few steps away when Natasha's eyes go wide, and she freezes mid-stride. 

Pepper gasps at the same instant, stumbling forward a step, her eyes locked on Natasha's. 

Bucky's never seen that expression on his friend's face. If he had to name it, he'd call it _aghast_. But it only lasts another second before Natasha is striding forward, straight for Pepper, who takes her hands in hers the moment she's in reach. Pepper bends down to listen to something Natasha whispers in her ear, their knuckles squeezing white as their bodies curve into each other. 

And then they turn and walk to the elevator, hand in hand, not sparing a glance for anyone else. 

The whole encounter lasts less than 30 seconds, and then they're gone, leaving four slack-jawed men in their wake.

Clint gapes. "Was that...? Did that just...?" 

Bucky nods slowly. He's never witnessed the formation of a true-pair bond except his own, but it's unmistakable. He's not sure what to make of Natasha's brief hesitation, but she'd seemed eager as they left.

Clint collapses onto the couch and buries his face in the pillows with a disbelieving groan.

"I'm not explaining this one to Fury," Steve says, shaking his head. 

Tony reaches past Bucky to smack Steve's hip. "Don't you dare. That pleasure's gonna be all mine! J, baby, tell me you got that on tape." He notices them all staring at him and says, "What? I'm sentimental! I always hoped to someday see Pepper as happy as I am now!"

Bucky groans inwardly at Tony's persistent belief in the triumph of true-pair bonds. "You know it's not that easy, Tony," he says gently. "I mean, look at us." 

The rest of his warning dies on his tongue at the loving expression that Tony turns on him. It's true that they'd struggled for quite some time—mostly because of Bucky's hangups—but the three of them found their way eventually. And knowing the effort his doms have put into having him, he'll never give either of them up now.

If Natasha has found a bond with a friend of Tony's...who knows? True happiness may find her despite herself, like it did him. He wouldn't wish her anything less.

"Look at us," he says again softly, and Tony's eyes drop to his mouth. "Tony...." he leans forward, and Tony meets him in a kiss, radiating love and contentment. Bucky sighs into it, grateful all over again for his dominant's open heart and unceasing generosity.

Steve's arm around his shoulders tightens, and Bucky hums, buoyed weightlessly on the waves of their affection.

When Tony lifts his mouth, Bucky turns his head to find Steve smiling down at him, the image of patience and devotion.

"You're so beautiful," Steve whispers.

Bucky licks his lips and says, "No, Steve, you are." 

"You both are," Tony insists. "I'll put it in neon on the side of the building if that's what it takes to convince you. In letters 30 feet tall. 'My husbands are the prettiest—'"

Bucky covers Tony's mouth, laughing when Tony's lips press a grinning kiss to his palm, then leans towards Steve. "C'mere," Bucky says softly, and Steve pulls him up into a kiss every bit as deep and claiming as his boundless affection.

Love suffuses Bucky from his toes to his crown, their shared happiness building exponentially, floating him on clouds of joy. 

He'd felt like he'd been falling for years, but with them to lift him up, he can fly high enough to touch the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> The story of Bucky coming to accept his dominants is finished, but many stories remain! Read below for more details.
> 
> This is my first solo long-fic, and my god did it turn out long. Did I write a novel? I think I may have written a novel! 
> 
> A world of thanks goes to [windsweptfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic) for her unflagging support and genius, even as she drifted out of the fandom. 
> 
> [samanthahirr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr) provided determined cheerleading, editing, and story critique; thanks for letting me drag you into the spiral of angst against all your instincts for self-preservation, sam! 
> 
> To my beloved commenters who've stuck with me as the story dragged on for three years, thank you thank you thank you for all your feels and your questions, which gave me deeper insight into these characters. I'd never have made it through this project without you!
> 
> Volition started with a mission to "fix" Bucky after the crushing world building of Trinity, with the literary trope of the unreliable narrator thrown in for fun. But as the story progressed, Bucky took on a life of his own, as did Steve and Tony, leaving me just as in love with the three of them as they are with each other. Closing their chapter is bittersweet, but I know they're secure in each others' hands.
> 
> This isn't the last you'll see of Bucky and his doms. Look for a time stamp sometime in the future. And of course the stories of Clint and Natasha are just beginning. The next story to post will jump ahead approximately one year and focus on Clint's journey to reclaim his sense of personhood. When Clint's story is done, I'll backtrack to cover Natasha's story, starting with the moment of the discovery of her bond with Pepper. 
> 
> Clint's exciting, action-packed sequel will start posting this winter. Here's a teaser:
>
>> **Concordance**  
>  Relationship: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson  
> Tags: BDSM-AU, action, dubious consent, non-graphic torture, subdrop, touch-starved
>> 
>> Military-trained submissives are disappearing all over the world, and SHIELD believes HYDRA is attempting to revive their program of enslaving subs. Director Fury has a man on the inside, but he needs Clint's help to get his agent close to the mastermind.
>> 
>> In the clutches of the enemy, Clint must fight to retain his hard-won sense of self, contending by day with a figure from his past who's determined to break him, and by night with the magnetic double agent he's tempted to trust.
> 
> **Additional links:**
> 
> Visit [my Tumblr](http://cinaea.tumblr.com) for writing updates and flailing!
> 
> Listen to [the Volition soundtrack](http://cinaea.tumblr.com/post/141905933959/playlist-for-volition).
> 
> Listen to the [HYDRA years soundtrack](http://cinaea.tumblr.com/post/150147307224/playlist-for-the-trinity-universe-the-hydra-years), devoted to Bucky's years as a captive. 
> 
> [COVER ART](http://cinaea.tumblr.com/post/137994667609/wantonlywindswept-made-cover-art-for-volition-oh) by [windsweptfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You are who you are, even if you don't know who that is yet.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250862) by [MmmMangos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MmmMangos/pseuds/MmmMangos)




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